THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


TRUE 


OTHER    STORIES 


BY 

GEORGE    PARSONS    LATHROP 

AUTHOB    OP    "AN    ECHO    Of    PASSION,"    "NEWPORT,"    ETC. 


PUNK    &   WAGNALLS 

NEW  YORK  1884  LONDON 

10  AND  12  DBT  STREET  44  FLEKT  STREET 

All  Rights  Reserved 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1884,  by 

FUNK  &  WAGNALLS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


CONTENTS. 


TRUE. 

CHAPTER   I.  PAGB 

HER  EYES  WERE  GRAY 5 

CHAPTER  II. 
THE  DE  VINES 13 

CHAPTER  III. 
TWILIGHT 23 

CHAPTER  IV. 
A  VISION 38 

CHAPTER  V. 
BIRTHDAY  TOKENS 46 

CHAPTER  VI. 
A  NEW  LESSON  IN  BOTANY 55 

CHAPTER  VII. 
THE  RACES,  AND  THE  MOTTO 67 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
ADELA'S  LEGEND 80 

CHAPTER  IX. 
LANCE  AND  SYLVESTER 92 

CHAPTER  X. 
THE  LIKENESS 106 

CHAPTER  XI. 
LANCE  RETURNS . .  116 


IV  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XII.  PAGE 

SYLV'S  TROUBLE 123 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
LANCE  AND  ADELA 130 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
DENNIE'S  TROUBLE 138 

CHAPTER  XV. 
ELBOW-CROOK  SWAMP 148 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
"  I  LIVE,  How  LONG  I  TROW  NOT" 159 


MAJOR  BARRLNGTON'S  MARRIAGE...  ..  166 


1  BAD  PEPPERS  " . .  198 


THREE  BRIDGES. 

I. 
THE  IMPORTANCE  OP  A  HAT 222 

II. 
FATHER,  DAUGHTER,  AND — WHO  ELSE  ? 227 

III. 
LISTENING 236 

IV. 
THE  THIRD  BRIDGE...  ..  242 


IN  EACH  OTHER'S   SHOES...  , 250 


TRUE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

HER   EYES   WEEE   GEAY. 

IT  might  have  been  yesterday,  but  in  simple  fact  it 
was  three  hundred  years  ago,  that  something  happened 
which  has  an  important  bearing  on  this  story  of  the 
present. 

Antiquity  is  a  great  discourager  of  the  sympathies  : 
the  centuries  are  apt  to  weigh  like  lead  on  an  individual 
human  sentiment.  Yet  we  find  it  pleasant  sometimes  to 
throw  off  their  weight,  and  thereby  to  discover  that  it  is 
a  mere  feather  in  the  scale  as  against  the  beating  of  a 
heart. 

I  know  that  when  I  speak  of  Guy  Wharton  as  having 
been  alive  and  in  love  in  the  year  1587,  you  will  feel  a 
certain  patronizing  pity  for  him — because  he  is  not  alive 
now.  So  do  I.  But  then  it  is  possible  that  you  will  be 
interested,  notwithstanding — because  he  was  a  lover. 
Would  you  like  to  hear  what  experience  he  had  ?  1 
promise  not  to  go  through  the  history  of  those  three 
hundred  years.  The  story  of  Guy  is  merely  the  start- 
ing-point of  my  narrative. 

He  was  in  love  with  a  sweet  English  girl,  Gertrude 
Wylde,  who  lived  in  Surrey  ;  and  she,  for  her  part,  was 
the  daughter  of  a  small  tenant-farmer  there,  well  con- 


6  TRUE. 

nected  as  to  family,  but  not  well  furnished  with  worldly 
goods.  Guy's  father  was  a  country  gentleman  ;  but  that 
circumstance  failed  to  affect  the  young  man's  eyesight 
and  emotions  injuriously  ;  he  beheld  Gertrude,  and  he 
loved  her.  1  can  see  it  all,  now,  as  if  it  were  something 
that  had  happened  to  myself — how  they  strolled  together 
in  those  wondrous  lanes  hedged  with  hawthorn  and  brier 
and  hazel,  which  stray  so  sweetly  over  the  rolling  lauds 
about  Dorking  ;  how  they  met  beneath  the  old  yew  tree 
where,  half  way  up  Box  Hill,  it  hung  out  its  foliage 
black  as  night,  spotted  with  strange  waxen  blossoms  of 
scarlet,  like  drops  of  blood  upon  a  funeral-pall ;  how 
they  wandered  in  the  untamed  forest  of  great  box  trees 
at  the  top  ;  what  joys  they  had,  what  anxieties  beset 
them. 

"  And  will  thy  father  indeed  take  his  leave  of  old 
England  so  soon  ?"  he  asked  her,  when  they  had  reached 
the  brow  of  the  hill. 

"  Yes,  in  truth,"  she  answered,  sadly  enough,  looking 
out  over  the  white  chalk  highlands,  and  the  arborous 
glades  and  open  downs,  to  where  the  waters  of  the  Eng- 
lish Channel  showed  soft  against  the  hazy  sky  at  the 
horizon,  like  a  blue  vein  on  a  circling  arm.  "  And  that 
means  that  I  must  take  leave  of  thee,  Guy." 

"Never,  my  darling!"  cried  Guy,  drawing  her  to 
him.  "  If  thou  goest,  I  go  as  well." 

"  "What  !  Forsake  all  here — estate  and  fortune  and 
family  ?  Nay,  dearest,  that  can  never  be."  Bat,  as  she 
spoke  these  words,  Gertrude  pressed  her  face  upon  his 
shoulder  and  gave  way  to  tears.  Then  presently,  raising 
her  head  and  gazing  up  into  his  face  :  "  How  should  it 
be  possible  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Easily  enough,  if  thou  wilt,"  he  replied.  u  I  would 
go  as  thy  affianced  husband." 


HER   EYES   WERE    GKAY.  7 

Thus  it  was  settled  that  he  also  should  join  the  colo- 
nizing expedition  with  which  Gertrude's  father  had  re- 
solved to  embark,  under  the  patronage  of  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh.  Its  goal  was  Roanoke  Island,  Virginia. 

As  the  lovers  walked  homeward  in  company,  and 
parted  to  go  their  separate  ways,  they  felt  as  if  their  feet 
already  trod  the  shores  of  the  New  World.  "  But  when 
we  are  there,"  said  Wharton  before  he  left  her  at  the 
turnstile  that  ushered  the  way  to  her  father's  farm — 
"  there  we  shall  have  no  more  partings." 

Alas,  he  was  but  a  poor  prophet  ! 

Difficulties  came  up.  Wharton' s  father  violently  op- 
posed the  plan  that  Guy  had  made.  That,  however, 
might  not  have  prevented  its  execution,  had  not  a  fatal 
thing  happened  just  at  the  critical  time.  On  the  eve 
of  the  sailing  of  the  expedition,  Guy's  father  died. 
That  which  his  bitterest  activity  while  alive  failed  to 
effect  was  accomplished  by  his  white  and  silent  presence 
as  he  lay  dead  in  the  old  manor-house.  At  such  a 
moment  Guy  could  not  go  away  ;  the  unspoken  edict  of 
death  restrained  him  absolutely.  Besides,  the  elder 
Wharton's  affairs  were  left  in  a  confusion  which  it  would 
take  long  to  clear  up. 

So  the  ship  sailed  without  Guy  ;  but  you  may  be  sure 
he  was  at  the  wharf  when  she  weighed  anchor,  and  that 
he  bade  a  tender  farewell  to  Gertrude,  promising  that 
he  would  follow  with  the  first  convoy  that  should  be  sent 
to  re-enforce  and  victual  the  new  colony.  At  the  instant 
when  he  had  to  leave  her,  she  said,  as  if  answering  his 
words,  uttered  many  weeks  before  at  the  turnstile  : 
"  Yes,  dearest,  we  shall  meet  soon  in  that  other  world, 
and  there  shall  be  no  more  parting." 

Guy  did  not  think  of  the  exact  expression,  just  then  ; 
but  as  he  travelled  back  to  the  manor-house,  now  his 


8  TRUE. 

own,  lie  kept  saying  to  himself  involuntarily  :  "  That 
other  world  ?  God  grant  it  may  not  mean  the  world 
beyond  !"  "When  he  stepped  within  the  door,  his  eye 
rested  on  the  inscription  over  the  great  fireplace  of  the 
hall: 

"  I  live,  how  long  I  trow  not ; 
I  die,  but  where  I  know  not  ; 
I  journey,  but  whither  I  cannot  see  : 
'Tis  strange  that  I  can  merry  be." 

Many  a  festival  had  been  held  beneath  the  unnoticed 
shadow  of  those  solemn  lines  ;  the  laughter  and  the 
cheer,  the  sobs  and  murmurs  of  many  a  voice  forever 
hushed,  had  echoed  from  the  wall  where  the  verses  were 
graven  ;  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  motto  had  never 
gained  its  full  meaning  until  now. 

"  I  journey,  but  whither  I  cannot  see." 

Gertrude  had  gone  out  into  the  great  void  of  the  un- 
known spaces  ;  and  he  was  to  follow  her — whither  ? 

It  would  indeed  have  been  strange  if  he  could  have 
been  merry  ;  and,  to  say  truth,  he  was  not  greatly  so  ; 
but  he  kept  up  his  hope  indomitably. 

At  last  everything  was  arranged  :  he  was  ready  to  go. 
But  he  had  to  wait  for  the  relief  expedition  to  sail.  In 
those  days  it  was  a  great  undertaking  to  prepare  for  a 
journey  across  the  Atlantic.  Raleigh  was  busy,  per- 
plexed, anxious  :  three  years  went  by  before  Admiral 
John  White  started  from  Plymouth  with  three  little 
ships  (one  for  each  year)  and  two  shallops.  But  when 
he  did  start,  Guy  was  on  board. 

It  had  been  agreed  with  the  colonists  that,  if  anything 
went  wrong  and  they  should  find  it  best  to  look  for  a 
new  site,  they  should  remove  to  a  spot  fifty  miles  inland 
among  the  friendly  Indians,  and  should  carve  upon  a 


HER    EYES   WERE   GRAY.  9 

tree  the  name  of  the  place  to  which  they  were  going. 
In  case  misfortune  befell  them,  a  cross  was  also  to  be 
carved  above  the  name  of  their  destination. 

When,  after  a  five  weeks'  voyage,  Admiral  White's 
vessels  approached  the  shore  of  Hatteras,  they  anchored 
some  miles  out,  for  safety,  and  sent  a  boat  in  to  the 
shallow  Sound.  Guy  was  in  the  bow  of  the  boat  which 
steered  for  Roanoke  Island.  The  crew,  when  they  had 
come  near  enough,  blew  trumpet-blasts  as  a  signal  of 
their  approach,  and  sang  songs  of  home — old  English 
glees  and  madrigals — that  had  often  echoed  in  the  fields, 
the  groves,  the  farmhouses  of  Surrey  and  Kent. 
Attracted  by  the  sound  the  colonists,  they  hoped,  would 
make  their  appearance  the  sooner.  But  how  strangely 
these  familiar  strains  fell  upon  the  ear  in  the  primeval 
solitude  of  those  lonely  waters,  on  that  lovely  April 
day  !  So  strangely,  indeed,  that  one  might  almost  fancy 
the  colonists  did  not  recognize  them  any  more,  and  hence 
failed  to  respond.  Yet  the  trumpets  continued  to  ring 
out  on  the  air,  and  the  gay  songs  were  trolled  cheerily, 
as  the  boat  drew  near  the  landing-place. 

It  may  be  imagined  what  an  eager  lookout  Guy  kept 
up  at  the  bow.  He  believed  every  moment  that,  at  the 
next,  he  should  see  Gertrude  emerging  from  the  woods 
and  waving  her  hand  to  him.  Still,  not  a  sign  of  life 
had  been  given  when  he  stepped  ashore. 

The  little  party  began  to  be  oppressed  by  forebodings. 
They  set  out  through  the  forest,  eagerly  searching  for 
some  token  of  their  countrymen's  presence  ;  but  no 
voice  answered  their  calls,  except  those  of  unaccustomed 
birds  and  astonished  squirrels  ;  and  no  trail  was  found 
upon  the  light  brown  soil,  other  than  the  marks  of  an 
Indian  moccasin  or  the  curious  dottings  made  by  the  feet 
of  furtive  animals. 


10  TRUE. 

At  last,  however,  the  seekers  came  to  a  tree  which 
confronted  them  with  three  rudely  carved  letters  cut 
upon  its  side. 

0.  E.  O. 

That  was  all.  There  was  no  indication  of  the  cross, 
the  symbol  of  distress.  The  men  burst  into  exclama- 
tions of  delight ;  yet  Guy,  though  his  heart  bounded 
high  with  reviving  hope,  suffered  a  terrible  suspense. 
The  sturdy  tree  had,  as  it  were,  found  a  voice  and 
spoken  ;  but  it  had  uttered  only  one  vague,  baffling 
syllable.  Of  what  use  was  that  feeble  clew  ?  Still  he 
pressed  on,  having  no  idea  which  way  to  turn,  but 
guided  by  some  inspiration  ;  and  presently,  shouting  to 
his  companions,  he  pointed  to  another  conspicuous  tree 
which  bore  upon  its  blazed  trunk  the  full  name  of  the 
colony's  new  abiding-place.  The  letters  missing  from 
the  first  inscription  had  doubtless  been  worn  away  by 
storms.  The  word  engraved  upon  the  fibre  of  the 
second  tree  was  "  Croatan." 

The  friends  of  the  colonists  did  not  know  precisely 
where  Croatan  lay  ;  and  though  Guy  urged  an  immediate 
exploration,  the  rest  thought  it  impracticable.  The  dis- 
tance from  the  ships  threatened  danger  of  being 
separated  from  the  expedition  by  some  accident,  and 
left  alone  without  supplies.  So,  having  read  the  brief 
message  of  the  departed  colonists,  the  boat  party  re- 
turned to  the  little  squadron  and  reported. 

A  storm  arose  ;  anchors  were  lost ;  the  supply  of  fresh 
water  had  run  low  ;  and  a  council  called  by  the  Admiral 
decided  that  prudence  required  taking  a  southerly  course 
to  find  some  safer  harbor  ;  advising  also  that  an  attempt 
should  be  made  to  capture  some  Spanish  vessels  and 
return  with  the  booty  and  provisions  to  find  the  lost 
colony.  In  vain  Guy  pleaded,  with  anguish  in  every 


HER    EYES    WEEE   GRAY.  11 

word,  that  at  least  one  of  the  ships  should  cruise  near 
the  coast  off  which  they  now  lay  and  await  the  first 
favorable  moment  for  prosecuting  the  search.  The 
Admiral  and  his  captains  were  inexorable  ;  and  the 
southern  course  was  taken. 

None  of  the  vessels  ever  went  back  to  the  aid  of  the 
English  at  Croatan. 

The  captain  of  that  one  on  which  Guy  Wharton  was  a 
passenger  turned  her  prow  toward  England  after  a 
little  time.  Once  more  at  home,  Guy  made  every 
endeavor  to  have  a  new  fleet  equipped  ;  but  all  his 
attempts  failed.  He  was  on  the  point  of  selling  every- 
thing he  owned,  in  order  to  fit  out  at  least  one  ship  and 
carry  substantial  aid  to  the  exiles,  when  certain  com- 
mercial ventures,  in  which  a  great  deal  of  the  property 
left  to  him  was  involved,  went  amiss  and  left  him  help- 
less. Kestless,  unhappy,  almost  broken-hearted,  he 
entered  on  the  struggle  to  re-establish  himself  ;  no  oppor- 
tunity occurred  for  him  to  sail  to  Virginia  again  ;  and 
so  much  time  passed  by,  that  such  an  undertaking  came 
to  look  hopeless.  Even  could  he  have  gone,  what  would 
he  have  found  ?  Perhaps  Gertrude  by  this  time  had 
died.  Or,  perhaps,  thinking  herself  forsaken  or  forgot- 
ten, as  the  whole  community  of  emigrants  seemingly  had 
been,  she  might  have  married  one  of  the  colonists. 

The  old  hope  went  out  of  Guy  Wharton's  life  ;  but 
though,  after  some  years,  he  took  a  wife,  he  never  lost 
the  pain  which  this  tragedy  of  his  youth  had  planted  in 
his  breast. 

And  they,  meanwhile,  the  vanished  exiles — what  was 
their  life  ;  what  were  their  thoughts  ?  How  long  their 
hope  survived,  no  one  can  even  guess.  Without  re- 
sources beyond  those  which  the  friendly  Croatans  them- 
selves had  ;  living  a  rude  and  simple  life  among  the 


12  TRUE. 

natives  in  that  wild  and  lonely  land  ;  did  they  watch  day 
after  day  for  some  sign  of  sail  or  fluttering  pennon  coming 
up  the  river,  or  listen  for  some  sudden  bugle-note  or 
gun-shot,  announcing  the  approach  of  relief  ?  Did 
Gertrude  keep  up  her  faith  through  the  weary  years, 
hourly  awaiting  her  lover  ? — fancying  she  heard  his  voice 
close  by  ? — then  waking  again  to  the  reality  of  the  lonely 
stream,  the  fluttering  forest-leaves,  the  uncouth  habita- 
tions, the  garments  of  deerskin  and  the  swarthy  savage 
children  at  play  ? 

God  only  knows  ;  for  of  all  those  hundred  and  fifteen 
wanderers,  men  and  women,  not  one  was  ever  seen 
among  the  civilized  again.  They  passed  from  the  region 
of  the  known  and  the  recorded  into  the  vagueness  of 
unlettered  tradition.  From  the  midst  of  history  they 
were  transplanted  into  myth.  They  faded  out  amid 
those  dusky  tribes  in  the  forest,  as  the  last  streak  of  light 
in  the  west  fades  into  darkness  at  nightfall. 

A  hundred  years  afterward  the  Indians  of  the  Hat- 
teras  shore  were  described  as  declaring  with  pride  that 
some  of  their  ancestors  were  white  and  could  "talk 
in  a  book,"  like  the  later  Englishmen  who  were  then 
established  in  Virginia.  It  was  taken  as  confirmation  of 
this  story,  that  some  of  the  Indians  who  told  it  had  gray 
eyes. 

Her  eyes  were  gray. 


THE   DE  VINES.  13 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  DE  VINES. 

ON  a  little  headland  at  the  southern  end  of  Pamlico 
Sound  where  it  narrows  in  to  the  waters  of  Core  Sound, 
a  small  dwelling-house,  half  hut  and  half  cottage,  looked 
forth  over  the  liquid  expanses  with  an  air  of  long  habi- 
tude and  battered  self-reliance.  It  had  but  two  meagre 
windows,  and  its  chimney  was  short  and  black,  suggest- 
ing an  old  tobacco-pipe  ;  but  the  little  house  leaned 
comfortably  against  the  low  sandy  ridge  at  its  back,  and 
did  not  seem  to  mind  any  of  the  imperfections  in  its  own 
facial  aspect.  Along  the  ridge  live  oaks  and  red  cedars 
flourished  gracefully,  and  the  ancient  structure  was 
closely  enfolded  at  either  side  by  thickets  of  that  kind  of 
holly  known  in  the  region  as  yaupon,  the  polished  leaves 
and  warm  red  berries  of  which  glistened  cheerily  in  the 
sunlight.  Indeed,  the  whole  place,  dilapidated  though 
it  was,  had  the  reassuring  appearance  of  a  home  ;  and 
when  from  its  narrow  doorway  a  beautiful  young  woman 
stepped  forth  into  the  breezy  afternoon,  nothing  more 
was  needed  to  complete  the  effect. 

If  it  was  a  home  before,  it  now  looked  the  ideal  of  a 
home. 

The  young  woman  turned  to  the  holly  bushes  at  the  left 
and  began  clipping  from  them  some  of  their  lighter 
branches,  which  she  let  fall  into  a  large  basket,  held 
gracefully  against  her  hip  with  one  rounded  arm,  while 
the  other  plied  the  shears.  She  was  tall,  but  not  fair. 
No  daughter  of  the  gods,  but  firmly  and  robustly 
human ;  yet,  at  the  same  time,  there  was  in  her 


14  TRUE. 

humanity  something  noble  and  inspiriting.  Am  1  not 
going  too  fast  ?  Why  talk  in  this  way  about  a  young 
girl  in  a  calico  gown,  cutting  holly-sprigs  beside  a 
tumble-down  old  cabin  on  the  Nawth  Ca'liny  shore  ? 
No,  she  was  not  fair  as  to  complexion  ;  her  skin  was 
richly  browned  by  out-door  life,  though  a  clear  rose-tint 
shone  faintly  through  the  brown.  She  was  beautiful, 
nevertheless  ;  and  yet — and  yet  what  was  it  ?  It 
seemed  as  if  that  outer  hue  could  never  under  any 
circumstances  wear  off.  But  a  mere  glance  at  her 
features  would  convince  any  one  that  she  was  not  of 
octoroon  or  metif  parentage.  Only  it  was  as  if  the  sun, 
watching  over"  her  loveliness  from  birth,  and  searching 
into  the  depths  of  her  nature,  had  warmed  her  blood 
until  it  had  darkened  a  little  and  her  pulses  had  spread  a 
shadow  in  their  flowing. 

Suddenly  she  desisted  from  her  work  and,  bending 
her  head  forward,  gazed  off  across  the  light  green  waves 
that  stretched  for  miles  between  her  and  the  low-lying 
strip  of  sand  that  barred  out  the  sea.  Had  she  heard  a 
distant  hail  from  the  boat  that  was  scudding  fast  toward 
the  headland  ?  At  any  rate,  there  was  the  burly  little 
craft,  careening  to  the  lively  breeze  amid  a  shower  of 
spray,  with  a  recklessness  characteristic  of  the  young 
helmsman,  whom  the  girl's  bright  eyes  would  have 
recognized  even  farther  away.  And  now,  as  the  craft 
abruptly  veered  to  windward,  to  approach  the  landing, 
her  master's  careless  handling  received  a  startling  illus- 
tration, for  she  almost  broached  to  ;  the  sails  were  laid 
aback,  and  for  an  instant  the  boat  threatened  to  cap- 
size. 

There  was  one  passenger,  an  old  woman,  who  sat  near 
the  helmsman  ;  and  at  this  juncture  she  snatched  from 
her  lips  a  short  clay  pipe,  emitting  a  shrill  cry  of  fright, 


THE   DE   VINES.  15 

together  with  an  alarmed  whiff  of  smoke— as  if  she 
herself  hud  unexpectedly  exploded. 

"  Lord  save  our  soulds,  Dennis  !  What  be  you  think- 
in'  on  ?" 

"  All  right,  auntie  !"  cried  the  young  man,  heartily. 
"The  critter '11  come  straight  in  half  a  turn."  And, 
exerting  all  his  force,  he  caused  the  dug-out  to  round 
into  her  course  again,  with  the  breeze  on  her  quarter. 
Two  or  three  minutes  later  she  touched  the  shore. 

The  young  woman,  having  thrown  down  her  basket, 
stood  ready  to  greet  the  new-comers. 

"  Well/Deely  dear  !" 

"  Why,  Aunty  Losh,  it  don't  seem  possible  that  it's 
you  come  back  again.  And  so  you're  really  here." 

"  Yes  ;  a'most  really — though,  as  you  see  just  now,  I 
come  nearer  drowndin'  in  front  o'  my  own  door, 
Deely." 

Dennis  submitted  his  stout  frame  to  a  convulsive 
laugh,  which  for  an  instant  gave  him  some  resemblance 
to  a  dog  shaking  himself  on  emerging  from  the  water. 
"  Drownded  in  half  a  fathom,"  he  exclaimed,  hilarious- 
ly. "  I'll  be  dog-goned  if  that  ain't  the  cutest,  aunty  ! 
Why,  I'm  almost  sorry  we  didn't  overset  the  old  boat, 
just  to  show  yon.  It  would  have  livened  you  up  fit  to 
kill." 

"  Dennis  !"  exclaimed  Deely,  her  eyes  flashing  indig- 
nantly, "  you  ought  to  be  ashamed." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  the  boy,"  Aunty  Losh  soothingly 
interposed.  "  It's  his  natur'  to  be  wild,  ye  know.  He 
ain't  never  happy  unless  he's  in  some  dare-devil  scrape. 
But  where's  Sylvester?" 

Deely,  with  eyes  cast  down,  appeared  needlessly 
embarrassed.  "  lie  went  up  to  Beaufort  to  market," 
she  explained. 


16  TRUE. 

Something  in  her  tone  caused  Dennis  to  glance  at  her 
rather  fiercely,  as  if  he  were  jealous.  "  Yes,  that  suits 
him,"  he  muttered,  with  a  trace  of  contempt.  "  Market 
business  is  just  about  what  Sylv  is  good  for  ;  that's  what 
it  is." 

"  It  aren't  right  to  speak  so  of  your  only  brother, 
Dennis,"  said  Aunty  Losh,  mildly. 

"  Oh,  dog  gone  it  !"  (Dennis  reverted  to  his  favorite 
expletive.)  "What  does  it  matter  whose  brother  he 
is  ?  I  speak  my  mind.  Deely,  don't  look  so  down  on 
me.  What's  the  trouble  ?" 

"  Only  you're  so  rough,"  said  the  girl,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  arm.  "  You  know  I  love  you,  don't  you, 
Dennie  ?  But  it  goes  against  me  to  hear  you  talk  so." 

He  placed  his  own  rough  hand  on  her  smooth  one  and 
patted  it  softly  for  an  instant  ;  then  he  moved  it  some- 
what brusquely  from  its  resting-place  on  his  shoulder, 
and  Deely  drew  away- a  step  or  two. 

"  I  catch  all  the  fish,"  he  said,  "  and  Sylv  takes  'ern 
for  himself."  There  seemed  to  be  an  undertone  of 
double  meaning  in  his  remark.  But  the  next  instant 
he  changed  from  gloom  to  sunny  cheer.  "  Come, 
aunty,  you  mustn't  stand  here  on  the  mud.  I  reckon 
you've  been  away  so  long  you'll  be  kind  o'  glad  to  see 
the  inside  of  the  old  cabin  again  ;  hey  ?" 

He  was  tall  and  sturdy,  this  Dennis  De  Yine  ;  and 
though  he  could  not  have  been  described  as  handsome, 
his  reddish  hair  and  ruddy  coloring,  united  with  the 
glance  of  his  blue  eye  and  a  certain  good-humored  Irish 
daring  of  expression,  made  his  presence  gay  and  attrac- 
tive. Aunty  Losh  was  quick  to  act  on  his  suggestion, 
and  they  all  went  into  the  cabin,  which  despite  its 
limited  frontage  spread  out  sufficiently,  within,  to  afford 
rooms  for  the  old  woman  and  her  two  nephews. 


THE    DE   VINES.  17 

"  Now,  aunty,"  said  the  girl,  "  the  tarrapin  is  most 
ready,  and  I'll  brew  you  a  good  cup  of  yaupon.  I  was 
just  cutting  some  to  dry  when  you  came."  And  there- 
upon Adela,  taking  a  handful  of  the  seasoned  leaves 
from  their  place  of  storage  in  a  cupboard,  swung  the 
kettle  from  the  fire  and  proceeded  to  infuse  this  local 
substitute  for  tea. 

"  My  patience,  but  it's  dear  to  my  buddy  and  heart," 
Aunty  Losh  murmured,  as  she  sipped  from  the  smoking 
cup.  "  An'  now  tell  me  what's  happened  while  I  been 
away. ' ' 

"  Why,  Sylv  wrote  you  everything  that  happened 
hyar,"  Adela  reminded  her,  in  some  surprise. 

"  Oh,  I  know,  1  know  !"  was  the  rejoinder.  "  But  it 
didn't  seem  nachul-like  when  I  had  to  have  folks  read  it 
to  me.  I  didn't  mo'n  half  get  it  in." 

"  There  ain't  nothin'  very  novel,"  said  Dennis, 
"  except  old  Sukey  strayed  off  on  to  the  main  yistiddy." 
Sukey  was  the  cow. 

"  Sho  !  It'll  allays  be  so,  long  as  I  live.  Nothin' 
but  stray  and  find,  stray  and  find.  Te  mout  hev  dug 
that  ditch  across  the  neck,  Dennie,  when  ye  knowed  I 
wanted  it  so  bad.  If  you'll  do  it  one  o'  these  near-com- 
in'  days,  I'll  knit  ye  a  new  pair  o'  socks." 

The  headland  on  which  Aunty  Losh's  house  had  been 
built  was  connected  with  the  main  only  by  a  narrow 
neck,  and  it  was  one  of  the  grievances  of  her  life  that 
her  cow  and  her  two  or  three  sheep,  when  turned  loose 
to  graze,  could  so  easily  make  their  way  to  the  adjoining 
territory. 

"I'm  fearsome  o'  the  tides,"  Dennis  explained. 
"  They  run  SD  strong  that  mebbe  they'd  cut  a  wider 
channel  than  you  want,  aunty.  But  I'll  try  it  ;  I'll  dig 
that  ditch  by-and-by — or  arterward." 


18  TRUE. 

The  talk  then  turned  to  other  matters,  and  Miss  Jessie 
Floyd  was  mentioned,  the  daughter  of  an  ex-Con- 
ferate  colonel  who  lived  a  few  miles  inland  on  an 
"estate"  of  some  dozen  acres,  magnificent!/  entitled 
"Fairleigh  Park." 

"  Miss  Jessie's  been  down  hjar  two  or  three  times," 
Adela  said,  "  to  buy  bluefish  and  tarrapin  for  the 
manor  ;  and  she  was  very  kind  to  the  boys.  Wasn't 
she,  Dennie  ?" 

"  That  she  was.  She  brought  us  jelly,  one  time." 
Dennis  gently  smacked  his  lips,  in  a  reminiscent  way. 

"I  reckon  she  hain't  brought  any  money,  though," 
his  aunt  skeptically  meditated,  aloud.  "  Any  company 
up  at  the  manor  ?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  the  girl.  "There's  a  young 
gen'l'man  from  the  Nawth — a  sort  of  English  chap,  I 
reckon  ;  anyhow,  he  comes  from  New  York.  Mr. 
Lauce  ;  that's  what  they  call  him.  I  hain't  seen  him, 
but  Dennis  can  tell  you. " 

"  Certain  shore,"  said  Dennis.  "  That's  his  name. 
He's  got  idees  about  buildin'  up.  He  wants  to  eddicate 
folks  all  round — sort  of  free  snack  of  knowledge  for 
everybody." 

"  I  reckon  he'll  be  eddi eating  Miss  Jessie  to  fall  in 
love  with  him,"  Adela  observed.  "  That's  what." 

"Well,  I  sha'n't  find  no  fault  with  him  if  he  do," 
Dennis  returned.  "Only  he  needn't  come  down  hyar 
away  with  his  idees  and  all.  'Pears  like  him  and 
Sylv  'ud  be  chancey  to  take  up  with  one  another, 
though." 

"  What  makes  you  think  that  ?"  Aunty  Losh  asked, 
with  a  trace  of  apprehension. 

"  'Cause  Sylv  don't  think  of  nothin'  now  but  book- 
larnin',  and  he's  been  hevin'  talks  with  that  ar  fellow." 


THE    DE   VINES.  19 

"  Sylv  '11  be  goin'  off  and  leavin'  us  one  o'  these 
days,"  the  old  woman  mused,  as  she  put  a  match  to  the 
short  pipe  she  had  been  filling  for  herself. 

"  Oh  no,  aunty  !  You  ortenter  think  he'd  be  so 
mean  !"  Deely  protested,  with  energy. 

Dennis  turned  upon  her,  angered.  "  Tou  keep  still, 
d'you  har  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  What  matters  if  he  do 
go  ?  I  reckon  I  can  take  car  o'  you  and  aunty,  all  by 
myself,  when  it  comes  to  that." 

Deely  was  evidently  impressed  by  his  dictatorial  man- 
ner, but  she  assumed  a  haughty  air.  "  /reckon  it's  about 
time  for  me  to  go,"  she  retorted,  "  if  you  can't  be 
more  civil.  Just  when  aunty  hain't  no  more'n  set  her 
foot  inside  o'  home,  too."  And,  despite  her  tone,  there 
was  a  slight  appearance  about  the  girl's  lips  and  eyelids 
as  if  she  would  like  to  cry. 

"  Oh,  well  ;  I  didn't  mean  nothin',  you  know  1 
didn't,"  Dennis  answered,  becoming  penitent.  "And 
when  you  go,"  he  added,  "I'm  a-goin'  with  you  as  far 
as  your  dad's." 

The  rising  trouble  was  thus  allayed,  and  all  three  were 
soon  engaged  again  in  talking  over  the  news,  or  the  local 
affairs  of  the  last  few  weeks.  For  Aunty  Losh  had 
achieved  one  of  the  most  remarkable  events  of  her  life, 
in  going  to  see  some  of  her  relatives  at  Norfolk, 
Yirginia.  She  had  much  to  tell  about  the  journey  and 
the  ways  of  the  people  in  that  great  city,  and  dwelt 
especially  upon  the  hardship  she  had  been  compelled  to 
suffer  in  drinking  "  China  tea,"  instead  of  that  far 
superior  docoction,  yaupon.  The  young  people,  in  their 
turn,  gradually  discovered  many  little  items  which  they 
must  impart  to  her. 

Aunty  Losh,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  was  the  sole 
female  representative  of  a  stock  which  once  gave  promise 


20  TRUE. 

of  making  itself  distinguished.  Her  lineage  was  trace- 
able from  a  certain  Major  De  Vine,  a  young  Irishman 
who,  stirred  by  the  sympathy  that  led  the  natives  of  two 
widely  separate  but  oppressed  countries  to  join  the  cause 
of  the  American  colonies,  had  enlisted  in  the  cavalry 
corps  raised  by  Count  Pulaski  to  join  the  Continental 
army,  during  our  Revolution.  Pulaski  was  a  Pole,  and 
De  Vine  an  Irishman,  but  they  had  the  same  inspiration  : 
they  fought  for  freedom  in  America  with  the  hope  that 
their  own  people  might  also  become  free.  De  Yine 
performed  many  a  gallant  deed,  in  the  course  of  the  war, 
and  rose  to  be  a  major  ;  but  the  consciousness  of  his 
good  service  was  his  only  recompense. 

At  the  peace  he  retired  from  the  struggle  poor,  and  ill 
fitted  to  make  his  way  by  other  means  than  the  sword. 
He  settled  in  the  South,  where  the  soil  was  not  favorable 
for  such  a  man  as  he.  What  little  property  he  possessed 
was  soon  lost.  Moreover,  he  and  his  children  having 
surrendered  to  the  reigning  prejudice  against  work,  there 
was  no  way  open  to  a  retrieval  of  even  the  meagre  com- 
fort they  had  at  first  commanded.  The  family,  failing 
to  make  any  advantageous  alliance  by  marriage  —which, 
indeed,  would  scarcely  have  been  possible  in  their  circum- 
stances— soon  declined  into  still  deeper  poverty.  The 
Major  died,  followed  by  all  his  children  excepting  one 
son,  who  drifted  across  the  border  into  North  Carolina  ; 
and  his  posterity  became  a  part  of  that  strange  popula- 
tion known  as  "  poor  whites." 

Listless  and  inefficient  as  those  people  are,  germs  of 
energy  are  known  to  have  been  fostered  among  them, 
which  have  sometimes  developed  ;  and  the  De  Vines 
always  retained  enough  of  their  ancestral  vigor  to  coun- 
teract their  ancestral  pride,  as  well  as  their  sense  of 
unmerited  misfortune,  and  to  keep  them  somewhat  above 


THE   DE   VINES.  21 

the  general  hopeless  prostration  of  the  class  into  which 
they  had  fallen. 

Aunty  Losh,  widowed  by  the  Rebellion,  and  left 
childless,  had  settled  in  the  little  hut  on  the  headland, 
with  her  two  nephews,  mere  boys  at  the  time,  but  now 
grown  to  efficient  manhood.  The  elder  one,  Dennis, 
was  stalwart  and  courageous,  and  became  a  successful 
fisherman  on  a  small  scale.  Sylvester  had  also  assisted  in 
the  common  support,  and  together  they  had  made  a  little 
headway.  But  in  Sylvester  the  ambition  for  something 
higher  had  awaked  :  he  had  not  only  learned  to  read, 
but  had  actually  become  a  student,  and  was  now  taking 
steps  toward  what  seemed  to  his  aunt  and  brother  the 
attainment  of  a  distant  and  dangerous  witchcraft — 
namely,  making  himself  a  lawyer.  Neither  of  them 
believed  that  he  would  ever  accomplish  this  chimerical 
design,  but  Sylvester's  scheme  was  always  present  to 
them  in  the  guise  of  an  impending  danger,  which  was 
just  as  dreadful  as  if  it  had  been  realized.  In  fact,  it 
was  worse,  because  it  seemed  to  them  a  spell  in  which 
he  had  been  caught,  and  to  which  his  life  would  ulti- 
mately be  sacrificed.  They  regarded  him  with  the 
mingled  envy  and  commiseration  that  we  are  apt  to  be- 
stow upon  those  who  have  the  strength  to  devote  them- 
selves to  an  idea  which  we  think  is  going  to  prove  a 
failure. 

Dennis,  on  the  contrary,  had  never  troubled  himself 
to  learn  anything  beyond  that  which  his  own  instinct 
and  contact  with  the  forces  around  him  could  teach. 
There  was  a  vague  tradition  stored  up  in  the  dust-heaps 
of  Aunty  Losh's  mind,  to  the  effect  that  his  ancestor,  the 
Major,  had  once  at  the  siege  of  Savannah  cut  his  way 
through  the  British  with  a  detachment  of  Pulaski's 
Legion,  and  that  in  so  doing  he  had  slain  with  his  own 


22  TRUE. 

hand  eleven  of  tlie  enemy.  Well,  it  was  with  tLe  same 
sort  of  desperate  rush  that  Dennis  cut  his  way  through 
the  problems  of  existence.  He  was  good  for  a  short, 
sharp  struggle,  but  he  was  not  steady,  and  had  no  ability 
to  plan  long  manoeuvres  or  patient  campaigns. 

A  streak  of  fierceness  remained  in  him,  also,  derived 
from  the  man  who  had  been  so  deadly  to  his  enemies 
when  placed  in  a  perilous  dilemma.  As  there  were  no 
British  opposed  to  him,  it  did  not  manifest  itself  in  just 
the  same  way  ;  and,  thus  far,  being  temperate  in  his 
habits  and  having  no  foes  so  far  as  any  one  knew,  he  had 
•not  slain  anybody.  But  his  passionate  impulses  asserted 
themselves  plainly  enough  at  times,  to  the  discomfort 
not  only  of  others,  but  also  of  himself. 

Here  they  were,  then,  these  three  people,  the  remote 
offspring  of  that  old  Revolutionary  officer,  living 
humbly  on  the  North  Carolina  shore,  unlike  as  possible 
to  what  Major  De  Vine  might  at  one  time  have  supposed 
his  descendants  would  be,  yet  bearing  his  blood  in  their 
veins,  and  acting  out  every  day  his  traits  or  those  of 
'  some  still  earlier  progenitor,  with  as  much  exactness  as  if 
what  they  did  and  said  had  been  a  part  written  for  them 
in  a  play. 

They  knew  nothing  about  the  romance  of  Guy 
Wharton  and  Gertrude  "Wylde,  so  far  back,  so  musty 
with  age  as  it  seems,  yet  so  alive  and  fragrant,  I  think, 
when  we  pluck  it  out  from  the  crumbled  ruins  of  the 
past  where  it  grew.  They  knew  nothing  of  the  deposit 
of  stones  in  the  waters  up  by  Shallowbag  Point,  near 
Roanoke,  which — being  of  foreign  character — are  prob- 
ably the  ballast  of  one  of  Raleigh's  vessels  thrown  over- 
board there,  in  the  stress  of  weather  ;  nothing,  except 
that  Dennis  had  learned  to  steer  clear  of  it  at  low  tide. 
But  when  you  consider  the  destiny  that  had  befallen 


TWILIGHT.  23 

the  family  of  the  gallant  youug  Revolutionary  fighter, 
how  much  did  it  differ  from  that  of  the  English  colonists 
whose  race  had  been  extinguished  in  savagery  ?  The 
change  which  had  taken  place  was,  essentially,  of  the 
same  kind. 


CHAPTER  III. 

TWILIGHT. 

WHEN  the  group  at  Aunty  Losh's  cabin  had  finished 
what  they  had  to  say,  Adela  Reefe  rose  to  go  ;  and 
Dennis,  taking  his  gun  from  a  corner  of  the  room,  pre- 
pared as  a  matter  of  course  to  accompany  her. 

"  Sun'll  be  goin'  down,"  he  remarked,  languidly, 
"  by  the  time  I'm  a-comin'  back,  and  I'll  have  a  right 
smart  call  to  get  a  few  birds. " 

"  1  wish  ye  was  goin'  t'other  way,"  Aunty  Losh  said, 
fretfully.  "  Ye  mout  see  suthin'  o'  Sylv.  It's  quare 
he  don't  come  'long  when  he  knows  his  old  aunty's 
a-waitin'  for  him." 

"  Oh,  he's  young,  aunty.  You  got  to  give  him  some 
play,"  said  Dennis,  with  fine  sarcasm,  though  he  knew 
well  enough  that  his  younger  brother  was  more  mature 
and  better  balanced  than  he. 

But  his  demeanor  underwent  a  change  as  soon  as  he  had 
passed  out  of  the  doorway  with  Adela.  The  air  of  lazy 
jesting  disappeared  ;  his  face  became  earnest,  and  he 
walked  with  a  kind  of  meekness  beside  the  girl,  looking 
at  her  guardedly  with  a  devotion  that  did  not  lose  the 
grace  of  a  single  motion  of  her  lithe  figure.  Leaving 


24  TRUE. 

the  headland,  they  took  the  direction  of  Hunting 
Quarters,  a  fishing  village  several  miles  distant,  where 
Adela  lived  alone  with  her  father,  a  nondescript  person- 
age depending  for  his  livelihood  upon  equally  nonde- 
script and  fragmentary  lore  of  a  supposed  medical  char- 
acter. Old  Eeef  e,  to  say  truth,  was  held  in  awe  by  some 
of  the  simple  neighborhood  folk,  as  a  man  possessed  of 
mysterious  and  magical  powers. 

The  two  had  gone  some  distance  without  speaking, 
when  Dennis  began  abruptly  :  "  I  got  somethin'  to  say 
to  ye,  Deely,  what  I  was  waitin'  to  say  till  aunty  come 
back.  It  didn't  seem  every  ways  fair  to  say  it  afore." 

"  What  in  time  is  it  wouldn't  be  fair  for  you  to  say 
to  me,  Dennie  ?'*  she  asked,  turning  her  face  quickly 
toward  him,  her  lips  parted  in  a  smile,  or  perhaps  only 
in  eagerness. 

"  Why,  when  you  was  comin'  over,  tendin'  me  and 
Sylv  and  the  cabin,  it  didn't  look  like  it  was  right," 
Dennis  said.  "  But  now  there's  a  free  course,  and  I 
want  to  lay  for  home." 

"  That's  a  good  word,"  Adela  threw  in,  seeing  him 
pause. 

"  Yes,  and  you  know  what  I'm  after.  1  want  ye  to 
say  when  you'll  marry  me." 

Deely,  at  this,  was  quick  to  avert  her  glance.  She 
remained  silent. 

"Well,  what's  in  the  wind  now  ?"  he  persisted. 
"  Ain't  ye  goin"  to  pass  me  an  answer  ?" 

"  What  can  I  say  to  you  ?"  she  returned,  earnestly. 
"  I  love  you,  Dennie,  as  1  told  you  long  ago  ;  and  I 
want  to  be  your  wife.  But  where  are  we  to  go  ?  What 
have  we  got  to  live  on  ?' ' 

Adela's  speech  varied  from  the  customary  manner  of 
the  locality  to  a  more  precise  and  refined  utterance. 


TWILIGHT.  25 

according  to  her  mood  ;  for  she  had  shared  in  Sylv's 
progress  to  the  extent  of  taking  lessons  from  him  in 
reading.  This  had  caused  her  to  observe  Miss  Jessie 
Floyd's  pronunciation,  and  that  of  the  few  other  culti- 
vated persons  whom  she  occasionally  saw,  so  that  she 
had  learned  to  copy  it.  The  instant  she  found  herself  in 
opposition  to  Dennis,  she  unconsciously  assumed  that 
superior  accent,  the  effect  of  which  upon  him  was  by  no 
means  mollifying. 

"  Oh,  don't  go  for  to  go  on  that  tack  now  !"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  I've  hearn  enough  on  it  a'ready.  I  mean 
squar'  talk  now,  and  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  fooled,  neither." 

"Answer  my  question,  then, "  said  the  girl,  peremp- 
torily. "  That's  no  more  than  fair." 

"  Why, -there  ain't  no  trouble,"  Dennis  assured  her, 
becoming  amiable  again.  "  1  reckon  we  can  make  out  to 
live  together  as  well  as  we  can  separate  one  from 
t'other." 

"  How  ?" 

"  Just  like  we  do  now.  'Pears  to  me  the  fish  '11  bite 
as  easy  when  they  know  they've  got  to  make  a  dinner 
for  we  uns,  stead  o'  for  Aunty  and  Sylv,  and  the 
tarrapin  '11  walk  up  to  be  cotched,  and  ground-nuts  and 
rice  '11  allays  be  plenty." 

"  Yes,  yes,  Dennie  ;  but  who's  goin'  to  take  keer  of 
Aunty  Losh  ?' '  said  Adela,  dropping  back  into  the  easier 
way  of  talking. 

The  young  man's  face  fell,  and  he  wrinkled  his  fore- 
head. "That's  a  fact;  that's  a  fact,"  he  murmured, 
sadly.  "  Poor  ole  aunty  !  She's  been  a  true  mammy 
to  we  uns,  and  it  ain't  nachul  to  leave  her  be  by  herself. 
But  Sylv  mout  take  keer  on  her,  Deely." 

"  Sylv's  younger  than  you,"  she  objected.  "  'Tain't 
his  portion  to  do  that." 


26  TRUE. 

"  Mebbe  lie  ar  young,"  said  Dennis  ;  "  but  lie's  got  a 
darn'd  sight  cuter  head,  some  ways,  than  I  have.  And 
you  mind  now  what  I  say,  Deely,  this  hyar  thing  has  got 
to  stop  one  o'  these  hyar  days.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
Sylv's  mopin'  over  them  books,  and  a-glowerin'  and 
tryin'  to  make  his  self  too  wise,  I'd  a-been  a  heap  better 
fixed." 

"  But  Sylv  wouldn't  a-been,"  was  the  answer  ;  "  and 
he's  worth  thinkin'  on  a  little." 

Dennis  laughed  scornfully.  "  A  little  !  He's  a  heap 
too  much  wuth  thinkin'  on." 

Adela  ceased  walking,  and  faced  round  upon  him,  at 
the  same  time  brushing  away  with  one  hand  a  tress  of 
her  crispy  black  hair,  which  the  wind  had  blown  across 
her  eyes.  She  wanted  to  meet  his  gaze  directly. 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  she  demanded. 

Dennis  was  her  match  for  belligerency.  "  I  mean," 
he  said,  "that  that  ar  youngster  takes  up  too  much 
'tention.  Thar  ar'n't  no  time  for  considerin'  on  no  one 
else.  It's  allays  Sylv's  ways  and  Sylv's  idees,  and  he 
can't  do  nothin'  for  himself,  but  some  one  else  hev  got 
to  do  it  for  him.  An'  here  am  I,  one  month  arter 
another,  findin'  the  ways  for  him  and  aunty  to  live, 
lettin'  alone  myself,  whiles  he  goes  smellin'  arter  them 
old  books  what's  made  o'  yaller  hide  that  ain't  no  better 
than  the  skin  off'n  our  Sukey's  back.  An'  that's  whar 
the  bits  and  the  dollars  go,  that  you  and  I  might  be 
enjoyin'  if  'twarn't  for  his  dog-goned  concayt  of 
lawyer's  jawin'  and  politics  and  parlawewte.  That's 
what !  An'  I'm  tired  on  it,  I  tell  ye.  What  1  mean  ?" 
Here  the  young  fellow's  handsome,  free-colored  face  be- 
came clouded  with  passion  that  darkened  it  as  with  the 
shadows  of  a  thunder-cloud.  "  I  mean,  Deely,  that  if 
you  are  a-goin'  to  put  Sylv  up  agin  me,  every  chance 


TWILIGHT.  27 

comes  along,  thinkin'  o*  his  good  and  not  o'  mine,  ye're 
not  nigh  so  lovin'  o'  me  as  ye  are  o'  him.  D'ye 
un'stan'  me,  now?" 

Adela  shrank  back  slightly,  as  if  he  had  levelled  a 
sudden  blow  at  her.  Then  she  replied  :  "If  that's  all 
ye  got  to  say  to  me,  Dennie  De  Vine,  ye  can  just  go 
back  on  your  tracks  to  the  cabin,  and  I'll  go  to  the 
Quarters  alone." 

Dennis  forgot  his  anger  in  anxiety.  "  But  there's  the 
tide-way  ye  can't  cross,"  he  said. 

11  I've  done  it  afore  now,  by  myself,"  replied  the 
girl.  "  'Twant  for  nothin'  you  learned  me  to  row  and 
sail.  Ah,  Dennie" — her  under-lip  trembled  as  she 
spoke — "  it  ar'n't  right  in  you  to  treat  me  so.  If  you'd 
only  remember  those  times  when  we  were  children  ! 
You  was  always  good  to  me,  then.  Why  ar'n't  you  good 
to  me  now  ?  I  feel  just  the  same  about  you  as  I  did  in 
those  way-off  days.  1  never  loved  any  but  you — and 
old  dad." 

The  poor  child's  head  was  drooping,  as  she  finished  ; 
and,  but  for  pride,  she  would  have  wept. 

"All  right,  then,  Deely,"  began  Dennis.  "If 
that's  so,  I'm  sorry — I  started  for  to  say,  I'm  glad. 
Only,  give  me  your  squar'  promise  that  you  won't  let 
him  stand  in  the  way  no  more.  I've  kept  my  hand  to 
the  helm,  and  I've  waited.  I've  been  waitin'  a  long 
time.  Sylv  won't  never  be  no  'count,  if  he  go  on  as  he 
ar',  and  we  won't  be  no  'count,  nuther.  Only  say  the 
word  that  you'll  marry  me  soon,  and  that  you  ain't  goin' 
to  let  Sylv  stand  in  the  way." 

"  But  you  said  I  cared  more  for  him  than  I  do  for  you," 
Adela  objected,  less  inclined  to  make  peace  than  before. 

"  Well  then,  you  can  say  you  don't,"  he  suggested. 

"No,  I'll  never  tell  you  so!"    she  cried,   her   eyes 


28  TRUE. 

flashing.  She  laid  a  hand  upon  her  bosom,  which  was 
heaving.  "  There's  somethin'  here,  Dennie,  makes  it 
hard  to  say  it.  I  can't  !  I  can't  !" 

What  she  intended  by  this  was  no  more  than  that,  if 
he  could  not  trust  her  without  such  assurance,  it  was  im- 
possible for  her  to  speak.  But  Dennis  took  it  quite 
otherwise. 

"  By  God,  it's  true,  all  an'  all  !"  he  stormed.  He 
paused  an  instant,  seemingly  dazed,  and  then  went  on  : 
"  I  didn't  fairly  believe  it  afore,  but  a  little  black  devil 
come  allays  whisperin'  it  into  my  ear,  when  I  was  alone, 
and  I  couldn't  get  him  out'n  my  mind.  It  was  Sylv, 
Sylv,  Sylv — my  own  brother  !  Oh  yes,  you  can  bet  I 
began  to  see  it,  then  !  I  done  my  best,  and  I've  waited  ; 
but  it's  Mm.  you  love,  and  now  I'm  to  be  throwed  over, 
Z  am.  Fm  the  one  that  don't  count  nary  fip.  An'  now 
1  believe  it,  you  needn't  be  afeared.  I  believe  it,  and  I 
know  it." 

Adela  was  stung  by  his  doubt,  and,  recoiling  from  it, 
made  her  next  move  in  precisely  the  opposite  direction 
to  that  which  her  heart  prompted  her  to  take. 

"You've  done  your  best?"  she  echoed,  tauntingly. 
"  And  what's  that  ?  Mighty  little.  You  can't  read, 
like— like  Sylv." 

"  Sylv  be  d— d  !"  shouted  her  lover.  "  If  ye  say 
another  word,  I'll  kill  him  !" 

Adela  Reefe  stood  before  him,  quite  calm  and  un- 
shnken.  However  she  might  fear  his  violence  toward 
others,  she  felt  no  alarm  for  herself.  She  knew  her 
power. 

"No,  you  won't  kill  him,  Dennie,"  she  said. 
"  You're  not  wicked  :  you  can't  do  that  wrong.  But 
I'm  goin'  to  tell  you  what  you'll  do.  You're  to  leave 
me  here,  and  go  back  by  yourself,  as  1  said." 


TWILIGHT.  29 

Dennis  tossed  out  a  little  defiant  laugh.  "  No,  1  ain't 
a-gohr,  nuther.  You'll  see  me  walkin'  right  alongside 
o'  you  till  we  get  to  old  man  Reefe's,  and  then  I'm  a-goin' 
to  tell  him  the  whole  yarn,  and  we'll  fix  the  weddin'." 

"  You  will  go  straight  back  to  aunty's,"  she  re- 
affirmed, quietly. 

Dennis's  features  softened  into  a  pleading  expression. 
"  You'll  let  rne  go  as  far  as  the  tide-way  ?"  he  petitioned. 

"No." 

He  hesitated,  but  presently  turned  and  walked  a  few 
steps  over  the  ground  they  had  just  traversed.  His  gun 
was  slung  in  the  bend  of  his  right  arm.  Once  more  he 
reverted  to  her,  appealingly,  but  without  a  word. 

"  You  must  go,"  said  Adela,  gently,  standing  on  one 
of  the  little  hummocks  into  which  the  land  was  broken, 
with  the  glow  of  the  sinking  sun  irradiating  her  brown 
and  rosy  cheeks,  her  dark  gray  eyes,  and  wild  black  hair. 

Dennis  obeyed.  She  remained  stationary,  watching 
him  as  he  withdrew. 

But  before  lie  had  gone  out  of  earshot,  he  called  out 
to  her,  defiantly,  like  a  truant  schoolboy:  "I'm  not 
goin'  back  to  aunty's.  Some  o'  those  birds  yonder  got 
to  smell  powder,  fust." 

Accordingly,  he  sauntered  along  over  the  uneven 
ground,  scanning  the  narrow  territory,  the  stretches  of 
adjacent  marsh,  and  the  clear,  pink-illumined  air  around 
him,  for  snipe  or  plover.  He  was  the  picture,  out- 
Avardly,  of  careless  ease  and  confident  health  ;  but,  in- 
wardly, he  was  far  from  being  placid.  There  was  a 
turmoil  of  clashing  sentiments  and  impulses  within  him, 
which  he  did  not  understand.  He  was  not  sure  as  to 
what  he  thought,  nor  could  he  have  told  what  he  felt  : 
he  knew  only  that  he  was  thwarted,  miserable,  and 
angry.  He  was  hurt  and  helpless,  and  drifting  on 


30  TRUE. 

toward  some  fresh  injury,  the  nature  of  which  he  could 
not  foresee  and  did  not  so  much  as  try  to  guess  ;  for  ho 
had  no  more  control  over  the  passions  that  tossed  his 
soul  than  if  they  had  been  a  raging  sea.  Yet,  all  the 
while,  his  gunner's  instinct  was  alert,  and  the  winged 
creatures  doomed  for  his  prey  could  not,  even  had  they 
been  gifted  with  understanding,  have  guessed  that  he 
was  about  to  avenge  his  own  wounds  by  those  he  would 
inflict  on  them. 

Aclela  waited  a  few  moments  where  she  stood  ;  for 
she,  too,  was  distressed,  and  hardly  knew  which  way  to 
turn.  The  thought  of  the  dreary  home  of  the  herb- 
doctor,  to  which  she  must  return,  was  not  alluring  ;  but 
she  could  not  go  after  Dennis,  either,  to  make  up  with 
him.  Suddenly  she  heard  a  short,  hollow  report,  that 
was  lost  immediately  in  the  echoless  spaces  overland  and 
water.  She  started  ;  an  indescribable  dread  seized  her. 
Why,  at  that  instant,  did  she  think  of  the  foolish  threat 
— empty  as  his  gun-barrel — which  Dennis  had  made 
against  his  brother  ? 

It  was  nothing  but  a  flying  plover  that  he  had  knocked 
out  of  existence  ;  she  could  guess  that  well  enough.  But 
she  did  not  stay  to  reflect.  Like  a  frightened  thing 
seeking  shelter,  she  sprang  from  her  place,  along  the 
open  stretch,  taking  the  opposite  edge  of  the  open  ground 
to  that  which  Dennis  had  chosen,  and  ran  lightly  on 
under  shelter  of  the  low  hillocks,  so  as  to  reach  some 
spot  abreast  of  him. 

A  strange  sight — this  maiden  running  so  featly  under 
the  sunset-light  on  one  side,  while  her  unconscious  lover 
strolled  along  the  other  !  She  glided  over  the  sod  with  a 
swiftness  and  an  intuitive  caution  worthy  of  an  Indian. 
Then  all  at  once  she  halted,  so  promptly  that  it  might 
have  been  with  a  premonition  of  the  shock  of  sound  that 


TWILIGHT.  31 

came  almost  simultaneously  from  a  second  discharge  of 
the  gun — nearer,  this  time  ;  much  nearer  ;  so  near  that 
Adela,  standing  still,  quivering  but  not  breathless,  heard 
the  faint  rush  of  several  shot  that  fell  with  a  sharp 
"  pat"  on  the  ground,  close  by  her.  Glancing  up,  she 
saw  a  small  bird  driving  through  the  sky,  writh  dropped 
feet  and  frantic  little  wings,  which  seemed  to  melt  away 
out  of  sight  in  a  moment,  as  if  by  magic.  Dennis  had 
tried  too  high  a  shot  and  missed  his  aim. 

Adela  did  not  flinch,  but  she  continued  on  her  way 
more  slowly. 

Dennis  also  proceeded,  popping  at  the  feathered  game 
now  and  then.  He  did  not  fire  again  toward  the  quarter 
where  Adela  was  lurking  ;  she  half  wished  that  he 
would.  The  dangerous  greeting  of  those  leaden  pellets 
would  be  better  than  no  message  at  all.  She  longed  to 
cross  over  and  speak  to  Dennis,  but  could  not  persuade 
herself  to.  He,  meanwhile,  gathered  only  two  small 
birds  ;  the  rest  that  came  in  his  way  either  escaped  or 
fell  out  of  reach  among  the  sedges.  Slinging  the  little 
creatures  into  his  pocket,  indifferently,  he  went  on  ;  and 
when  he  reached  the  point  where  he  should  have 
diverged  toward  the  cabin,  he  resolved  to  strike  into  the 
pine-woods  and  meet  the  Beaufort  road. 

Moody  and  dissatisfied,  he  was  not  inclined  to  shut 
himself  up  in  solitude  at  this  hour  with  Aunty  Losh  ; 
for  he  knew  that  Sylv,  though  he  had  set  out  for  Beau- 
fort before  sunrise,  was  not  likely  to  have  accomplished 
the  return  journey  before  now.  It  was  a  distance  of 
more  than  fifteen  miles  ;  Sylv  had  taken  his  load  of  fish 
on  a  borrowed  wagon  which  must  be  left  at  the  town, 
and  therefore  would  be  obliged  to  foot  the  whole  way 
back.  Dennis  preferred  to  wait  on  the  road  and  meet 
him  there. 


32  TRUE. 

Possibly  Adela  had  suspected  that  he  would  do  this. 
At  all  events,  on  arriving  where  she  could  see  him  if  he 
had  been  going  toward  the  hut,  she  discovered  that  he 
must  have  taken  the  other  course,  and  she,  too,  protected 
by  the  trees  which  now  were  frequent  enough  to  afford 
a  cover,  slipped  cautiously  into  the  piny  woods. 

Dennis  had  not  gone  far  along  the  rough  thoroughfare 
when  a  second  figure  appeared,  moving  toward  him  in 
the  gradual  twilight,  between  the  ranks  of  long-leaved 
pines.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  man,  young  and  of 
vigorous  frame,  but  slightly  bent  ;  though  that  may  have 
been  due  only  to  fatigue  or  revery.  His  face  was  dark- 
ened, rendered  still  more  serious  in  its  thoughtful  ex- 
pression by  a  straggling  beard,  which,  however,  grew  in 
a  picturesque  entanglement  that  added  character,  instead 
of  obscuring  it.  He  was  dressed  with  a  modest  style 
and  care  that  made  an  outward  difference  between  him 
and  the  ordinary  dwellers  on  that  shore,  but  his  clothes 
were  of  simple  "sheep's  gray."  Under  his  arms  he 
carried  two  books,  heavy  tomes,  the  smoky  yellow  of 
wrhich,  discernible  even  in  that  fading  light,  showed  that 
they  were  the  ripe  husks  in  which  the  fruits  of  the  law 
are  stored. 

This  was  Sylvester. 

Dennis  waited  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees  until  Sylv 
came  nearly  abreast  of  him. 

"  Hullo,  Sylv,"  he  said. 

The  younger  brother  gave  a  start,  and  stopped  abruptly 
in  the  rutty  roadway,  looking  toward  the  speaker. 
Then,  with  a  smile  of  singular  frankness  and  sweetness, 
he  said  in  a  low,  unperturbed  voice  :  u  Why,  Dennie,  I 
wasn't  looking  to  find  you  here.  Seems  queer,  but  I 
was  thinking  so  hard,  all  alone,  that  you  almost 
frightened  me." 


TWILIGHT.  33 

He  spoke  with  great  precision,  as  was  natural  in  a 
person  of  his  studious  turn,  but  without  the  least  prim- 
ness or  affectation.  Carefully  transferring  a  ponderous 
volume  from  its  place  under  his  right  arm-pit  to  his  left 
hand,  he  held  the  other  hand  out  for  a  greeting. 
"  Seems  as  if  I'd  been  away  a  week,"  he  said,  wearily. 
"  Has  aunty  come  ?" 

Dennis  made  no  motion  to  take  the  proffered  hand. 
"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  she's  thar,  and  she's  waitin'  for  ye." 

His  manner  was  so  unusual,  so  withdrawn,  that  Sylv 
was  surprised,  and  let  his  right  arm  fall  to  his  side. 

"  Why,  what's  the  trouble  ?"  he  asked.  "  You're 
not  like  yourself,  Dennie.  You  are  dispirited." 

"  Anybody  could  see  that."  answered  the  senior  in  a 
surly  tone,  "  without  those  thar  long  words..  Yes,  I  am 
sort  o'  down  ;  I'm  out  o'  gear.  That's  the  fact." 

"  Well,  let's  go  along  to  the  cabin,"  Sylv  proposed, 
throwing  into  his  words  a  soothing  tenderness  as  uncon- 
scious as  that  of  a  woman's  voice.  "  Whatever's  ailing, 
we'll  consult  over  it  there." 

"  No,"  said  his  brother,  refusing  to  stir.  "  I  \vant  to 
talk  to  you  hyar." 

"  I'm  downright  tired,"  Sylv  objected,  mildly.  "  I've 
been  walking  so  long.  I  made  a  good  trade,  though, 
Dennie.  See  here." 

He  laid  his  books  down  in  the  road,  and  put  his  hand 
into  his  pocket.  Then  he  withdrew  it  suddenly,  looking 
alarmed,  and  began  to  search  another  pocket.  Dennis 
waxed  visibly  impatient.  Finally,  plunging  into  a  third 
receptacle,  Sylv  brought  to  light  five  silver  dollars. 
"  That's  what  I  got  !"  he  exclaimed,  triumphantly. 

"  That  all  !"  cried  Dennis.  "  Oh,  I  knowed  it,  I 
knowed  it !  And  those  thar  books — you  worked  shares 


34  TRUE. 

"  Yes,  I  found  1  could  get  those,  too,"  said  Sylv, 
with  honest  exultation. 

Dennis  emitted  a  groan.  "  Ye've  done  it  agin,"  he 
muttered,  gloomily.  "  Now  look  hyar,  Sylv,  ye  wisht 
a  second  ;  I'm  goin'  to  give  ye  my  mind.  You're 
a-takin'  the  life  right  out'n  me  and  ruinin'  my  hopes, 
and  I  ain't  stood  out  about  it  afore  ;  but  dog-gone  me  if 
I  don't  stand  out  now.  I  wouldn't  'a'  keered  if  it 
hadn't  been  none  but  me  and  aunty,  but — "  Here  the 
unhappy  man's  voice  broke.  His  right  arm  was  occu- 
pied with  holding  his  gun,  but  he  raised  his  left  and 
wiped  away  upon  the  sleeve  the  moisture  which  had 
gathered  in  his  eyes.  "  But  when  it  comes  to  Deely," 
he  continued,  "  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  let  things  run  as  they 
hev." 

With  the  instinct  of  the  collector,  Sylv  stooped  and 
picked  up  his  books  ;  but,  as  he  rose,  he  offered  to 
Dennis  the  money  which  he  held.  "  I  don't  under- 
stand," he  said,  looking  puzzled.  "  What  are  you  talk- 
ing about  ?" 

Dennis  remained  immobile  in  the  shadow  of  the  pines, 
ignoring  the  younger  man's  gesture.  "Keep  your 
money,"  he  said.  "D'ye  think  I'm  a  highway  robber, 
to  stop  ye  for  what  ye've  got  ?  It's  bad  enough  that  ye 
barter  away  our  livin'  ;  but  'tain't  that  I'm  a-thinkin' 
on.  Ye've  took  Deely  away  from  me.  That's  worse  ; 
a  heap  sight  worse  !" 

His  brother  gazed  blankly  at  him,  apparently  not 
understanding.  "Deely?"  he  said,  "/didn't  take 
her.  What  d'  you  mean.  Where  is  she  ?" 

"  Coward  !"  cried  Dennis,  growing  violent. 

At  that  word  Sylv  quivered  visibly,  and  drew  him- 
self up,  with  a  pride  he  had  not  shown  before. 

Dennis,  after  pausing,  went  on:  "D'ye  dar' to  tell 


TWILIGHT.  35 

me  ye  don't  know  what  1  mean  ?  Deely's  home,  but 
I've  been  a-talkin'  with  her,  and  I  know  it's  so  and  ain't 
no  other  way.  She  sees  how  you  been  a-playin'  it  on  me, 
but  'tain't  no  'count  to  her.  She  wants  you  to  go  right 
on,  the  same  way.  'Tain't  nothin'  to  her  that  you  hold 
us  off  from  bein'  married,  by  that  foolishness  and  study- 
in'  o?  yourn.  It's  cl'ar  as  day  she  thinks  a  heap  more  on 
you  than  she  does  on  me.  An'  1  tell  ye  ye're  the  one 
that's  to  blame.  Ye  done  it,  and  ye  knowed  it.  Ye 
took  her  heart  away  from  me." 

A  new  perception  broke  upon  Sylv.  He  contem- 
plated Dennis  with  a  sort  of  curiosity,  and  a  smile  stirred 
the  loose  dark  beard  about  his  lips.  Any  one  but  his 
angry  brother  might  have  seen  that  he  regarded  the  idea 
of  his  being  enamored  of  a  woman  with  a  disdain  curbed 
only  by  a  sense  of  the  comic. 

"  So  you  stand  up  here  and  tell  me  that,  do  you  ?" 
he  retorted.  "  Well,  all  I've  got  to  say,  Dennie,  is  that 
you're  acting  like  a  fool." 

Dennis's  hand  clutched  the  stock  of  the  gun, 
nervously,  under  the  strain  of  the  effort  he  made  to  con- 
trol himself.  "  No,  I  ain't,"  he  declared.  "  1  been  a 
fool  afore,  but  1  ain't  one  now.  I  see  the  whole  thing, 
1  tell  ye.  She's  set  her  heart  on  you,  and  you've  set 
yourn  on  her." 

Sylv  braced  himself  a  little,  and  looked  resolute. 
"  Now  I  give  you  fair  warning,"  he  said.  "  1  tell  you 
square  that  I  don't  care  about  Adela  Eeefe  more  than  as 
a  sister — my  sister  and  your  wife  that  is  to  be.  Are  you 
going  to  deny  my  word  ?' ' 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  the  other  asserted,  doggedly. 

"  And  you're  going  on,  after  that,  to  assert  that  1 
took  her  love  away  from  you  ?" 

"Yes,  lam." 


36  TRUE. 

"Then  I  say,  you  lie!"  Sylv  returned,  hotly.  The 
same  passionateness  that  ruled  Dennis  was  present  in 
him,  also,  though  well  concealed  under  his  habitual 
calm  ;  but  it  had  broken  loose  now. 

In  an  instant  Dennis  lifted  his  gun  to  an  aim.  "  No 
man  can  say  that  to  me,"  he  thundered. 

His  finger  slid  down  to  the  trigger,  and  he  drew  the 
hammer  back. 

Sylv  stood  in  the  road,  unmoved,  the  books  under  his 
arms.  "  It's  too  easy  a  shot,"  he  said,  quickly,  but  in  a 
low  voice.  "  Besides,  I  can't  fire  back." 

"  You  won't  have  any  call  for  that,"  Dennis  assured 
him,  grimly.  He  spoke  coolly,  but  his  rage  completely 
mastered  him. 

"  Stop  !"  cried  Sylv,  when  the  gun-mouth  seemed 
about  to  burst  into  flame. 

"  Stop  !" 

The  syllable  was  repeated  from  the  woods  close  by 
them.  Was  it  an  echo  ?  No  ;  that  was  impossible  ; 
there  was  no  echo  in  that  place,  and  both  men  knew  it. 
Besides,  there  was  a  different  tone  in  the  voice  which 
seemed  to  ring  out  from  the  shadow  of  the  pines — an 
accent  of  alarm  and  agony,  unlike  the  peremptory  cry 
which  Sylv  had  uttered. 

Dennis  brought  down  his  gun,  instantly.  "  ^Vhat's 
that  ?"  lie  exclaimed,  thoroughly  unnerved.  He  felt  as 
if  some  supernatural  warning  had  been  given  him. 

"  It  sounded,"  said  Sylv,  "  like — "  Here  he  checked 
himself,  and  stared  across  the  road,  trying  to  make  out 
something  among  the  trees. 

Dennis  turned  in  the  same  direction,  and  in  a  moment 
they  had  both  moved  thither,  and  were  straining  their 
eyes  to  discover  the  source  of  the  sound.  But  their 
scrutiny  was  in  vain  :  nothing  appeared.  It  is  true, 


TWILIGHT.  37 

they  fancied  a  noise  as  of  some  one  stirring,  some  one 
making  a  hasty  retreat  ;  but  that  might  have  been  only 
the  wind  that  came  with  stealthy  swiftness  from  the 
ocean  side  and  set  all  the  murmurous  branches  in  move- 
ment. Was  there  a  figure  flying  through  the  piny 
arcade  ?  Of  that,  also,  they  could  not  be  sure  ;  for  the 
twilight  had  increased  more  and  more,  and  darkness 
seemed  to  ooze  through  the  air  like  a  palpable  exudation 
from  the  gummy  trees. 

The  brothers  faced  half  around  and  exchanged  a 
peculiar  glance  that  was  tinged  with  awe.  But  Dennis 
fell  to  trembling. 

"  Hyar  !  Take  it!"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  horror. 
"  Take  the  gun,  Sylv.  I  was  crazy.  What  was  I 
a-doin'  just  now  ?  Oh,  take  it  away  from  me  ;  don't  let 
me  touch  it  !" 

Sylv,  on  the  point  of  complying,  paused  and  said 
slowly  :  "  No,  Dennie,  I  won't  take  it.  You  didn't 
think  what  you  were  doing.  I  trust  you." 

Still  shaking,  Dennis  looked  at  him  with  a  dumb, 
bewildered  gratitude. 

"  Come,"  said  his  brother,  stepping  again  into  the 
path. 

Dennis  followed  him,  but  as  they  left  the  spot  he 
said  :  "  It  war  like  Deely's  voice,  Sylv.  She  saved  me, 
this  time." 


38  TRUE. 

CHAPTER  1Y. 

A  VISION. 

THAT  which  Adela  had  seen  and  overheard  so  startled 
and  horrified  her,  it  raised  such  a  war  of  emotions,  that 
she  was  unable  to  reflect  upon  what  she  ought  to  do.  Jn 
coming  through  the  woods,  obedient  to  the  vague  need 
she  felt  of  following  Dennis,  ehe  had  heard  the  rising 
voices  of  the  disputants,  and  when  she  reached  a  spot 
where  she  could  command  a  view,  she  beheld  her  lover 
with  his  gun  raised,  on  the  very  verge  of  committing 
murder. 

For  a  moment  her  every  faculty  was  paralyzed.  Had 
the  weapon  been  levelled  at  herself,  her  dread  would 
have  been  less  freezing  :  she  could  have  been  brave  and 
active  on  her  own  behalf.  To  see  another  person 
threatened  with  mortal  danger,  and  he  the  brother  of 
Dennis,  was  different.  In  the  presence  of  impending 
crimes,  human  beings  seem  to  yield  to  a  painless  lethargy 
like  that  which  is  said  to  overcome  the  victim  of  a  tiger, 
even  before  the  claws  have  made  a  single  wound.  The 
extreme  of  terror  suspends  the  faculty  of  feeling,  as  of 
action  ;  and  this  is  what  renders  possible  the  enactment 
of  the  most  dreadful  deeds  in  broad  day,  before  a  crowd 
of  witnesses. 

To  shriek  would  have  been  the  easy  resource  of  some 
women.  Adela  Keefe  did  not  know  how  to  shriek. 
She  might  have  bounded  forward,  to  stay  Dennis's  hand 
or  divert  his  aim  ;  but  her  muscles  failed  her  as  if  they 
had  been  caught  and  webbed  with  invisible  cords.  Be- 
sides, any  sudden  movement  might  have  resulted  only 
in  precipitating  a  tragic  end, 


A  VISION.  39 

Just  then  it  was  that  Sylv  called  out  ;  and  Adela 
echoed  him,  half -unconsciously,  but  with  a  wilder  earnest- 
ness. The  two  exclamations  dissolved  the  spell  that  had 
held  her.  The  crisis  was  over,  and  the  catastrophe  had 
been  warded  off.  What  was  she  to  do  next  ?  If  she 
appeared,  the  effect  of  her  sharp  outcry  might  be  lost  ; 
Dennis  might  be  maddened  to  some  fresh  outbreak  worse 
than  the  first,  by  the  knowledge  that  she  had  seen  him 
in  that  awful  situation.  The  difficulties,  the  quarrel  that 
might  ensue,  were  she  to  confront  the  brothers  then, 
would  be  full  of  peril.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
hide  ;  and,  gliding  from  tree  to  tree,  she  made  her 
escape. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  she  finally  reached  her 
father's  house  at  Hunting  Quarters  that  night  ;  for, 
driven  by  the  agitation  which  followed  the  episode  in  the 
woods,  and  troubled  by  a  cloud  of  doubts,  wonders,  and 
anxieties  that  rose  upon  her  mind,  she  wandered  rest- 
lessly along  the  shore,  as  homeless  and  unfettered  as  the 
marsh-ponies  that  were  tossing  their  manes  above  the 
dim,  low  line  of  that  outer  strip  of  land  which,  across 
the  Sound,  ran  out  thirty  or  forty  miles  under  the  even- 
ing sky  toward  Ocracoke  and  liatteras. 

Now  it  happened  that  Mr.  Edward  Lance,  the  guest 
at  Colonel  Floyd's,  had  been  out  on  a  solitary  excursion 
of  scientific  inquiry,  diversified  by  fishing,  along  that 
same  sandy  barrier.  He  stayed  later  than  he  expected  ; 
and,  boating  over  to  the  main  in  the  nightfall,  he  came 
walking  along  the  uneven  and  indented  shore,  on  his 
way  to  Fairleigh  Park,  while  Adela  was  still  abroad. 

Lance  was  sorry  to  be  so  late,  but  he  had  abundant 
material  for  agreeable  revery  with  which  to  occupy 
himself  until  he  should  get  back  to  the  society  of  Miss 
Jessie  and  her  father,  Some  three  weeks  had  passed 


40  TRUE. 

since  lie  had  corne  to  tlie  hospitable  shelter  of  the 
colonel's  roof,  and  he  had  had  time  to  become  much 
interested  in  other  things  than  the  errand  which  had 
originally  brought  him  hither. 

The  young  man,  it  should  be  explained,  was  a  New 
Yorker,  whose  tastes  were  cultivated  and  progressive  ; 
fortunately  for  him,  he  likewise  had  money  enough  to 
admit  of  following  his  bent. 

"  He  is  the  son  of  my  agent's  former  partner  in  busi- 
ness," Colonel  Floyd  had  told  his  daughter,  when  he 
received  the  letter  which  led  to  his  sending  Lance  an  in- 
vitation to  visit  them.  "  You  don't  know  his  name,  my 
dear,  and  indeed  it  is  unfamiliar  to  me.  Mr.  Lance 
senior  died  some  years  since,  before  my  relations  with 
Mr.  Hedson,  who  was  in  business  with  him,  began. 
But  1  understand  that  he  is  an  accomplished  young 
gentleman,  who  wishes  to  inquire  into  the  resources  of 
our  State — more  especially  the  coast-belt." 

"That's  where  we  live,  isn't  it,  pa?"  Miss  Jessie 
inquired. 

"  Yes,  my  child,"  said  the  colonel,  impressively. 
"  He  desires  to  study  our  fisheries  and  other  industries — 
with  a  view,  perhaps,  to  establishing  some  manufacturing 
or  agricultural  enterprise.  It  would  not  be  at  all 
strange,  Jessie,  if  he  were  to  put  capital  into  something 
in  our  neighborhood.  I  think  he  may  invest.  Yes  ;  lie 
is  probably  seeking  a  field  for  his  capital." 

Colonel  Floyd  said  all  this  as  if  he  were  reading  a 
letter  or  quoting  from  a  cyclopaedia.  That  was  his 
habitual  way  of  saying  things.  1  should  hardly  call  it 
an  affectation,  but  lie  seldom  spoke  at  any  length  with- 
out producing  the  effect  of  his  being  a  standard  work  of 
reference,  which  would  always  tell  you  exactly  what  you 
wanted  to  know,  and  would  state  it  in  the  best  language. 


A   VISION.  41 

He  was  a  slender  man,  with  a  small  but  well-shaped 
head  encased  in  closely  cut  hair  that  had  begun  to  silver  ; 
the  gray  and  the  black  intermingled,  and  shone  with  a 
glimmering  changefulness,  like  the  sheen  of  mica.  He 
wore  spectacles,  and  had  that  precise,  tactical  expression 
noticeable  in  Confederate  veterans  of  the  war  and  so 
wholly  at  variance  with  our  conventional  idea  of  the 
romantic  Southern  type.  As  the  colonel  held  the  lease 
of  a  turpentine  plantation  which  he  was  working,  near 
his  own  modest  estate,  he  was  naturally  interested  in  the 
development  of  the  "  coast -belt,"  and  was  disposed  to 
welcome  the  young  Northern  capitalist  of  whom  his 
agent,  Hedson,  spoke  so  highly. 

"  What  do  you  say,  my  daughter  ?"  he  asked  Jessie, 
after  a  pause.  "  Would  it  be  agreeable  to  you  to  have  a 
visitor  ?  Shall  we  invite  Mr.  Lance  to  stay  with  us  ?" 

He  inspected  her  kindly  through  his  glasses,  as  if  she 
had  been  some  harmless  little  prisoner  of  war. 

"  It  shall  be  just  as  you  like,  pa  dear,"  said  Jessie,  art- 
lessly. "  And  if  Mr.  Lance  is  coming — why,  there's  no 
other  place  for  him  to  stay.  Is  there  ?" 

The  unsuspicious  would  have  been  forced  to  suppose, 
from  the  forlorn  manner  in  which  Miss  Jessie  cast  her 
eyes  around,  that  she  regretted  the  absence  of  any  con- 
venient hostelry  for  the  stranger's  harborage. 

The  veteran,  however,  saw  through  her,  or  fancied 
that  he  did.  At  all  events,  he  knew  that  the  solitude  of 
the  Park,  with  only  a  few  liberated  slaves  and  the  old 
housekeeper  for  company,  could  not  be  much  more 
desirable  for  his  daughter  than  the  presence  of  a  promis- 
ing young  man  like  Lance. 

Accordingly,  it  was  settled  that  Lance  should  come. 
Here  he  was,  then,  fully  established,  and — thanks  to  the 
perfect  hospitality  of  the  old  officer — rejoicing  in  an 


42  TRUE. 

unexpected  sense  of  being  thoroughly  at  home  in  those 
•warm  latitudes.  It  was  now  the  end  of  July — a  hot  time 
to  be  so  far  South — but  Lance's  satisfaction  with  his 
new  surroundings  was  so  great,  that  he  had  decided  to 
remain  through  the  summer,  and  already  began  to  think 
that  that  period  would  seem  all  too  short. 

While  his  scientific  eye  had  been  riveted  upon  the 
processes  of  turpentine  manufacture,  on  the  number  and 
kinds  of  food-fish  inhabiting  the  shallows  or  the  sea,  and 
on  the  feasibility  of  turning  Elbow  Crook  Swamp  into 
a  luxuriant  market -garden,  a  finer  vision — which  he 
possessed  in  common  with  some  others  of  us  who  belong 
to  the  masculine  side  of  our  species — had  been  occupied 
with  the  dainty  yet  commanding  outline  of  Jessie 
Floyd's  face  ;  the  saucy  charm  of  her  dark  hair  parted  on 
one  side  ;  her  novel,  half -childish,  yet  imperious  ways. 

He  was  thinking  of  her,  now,  as  he  traversed  the  bit 
of  open,  marsh-bordered  land  alongside  the  pines,  where 
Dennis  and  Adela  had  taken  their  unpropitious  walk, 
tli  at  day. 

The  sun  had  set  long  before  ;  the  twilight  had  deep- 
ened and  deepened  until  all  at  once  it  seemed  to  meet, 
in  its  meditativeness,  a  thought,  an  inspiration,  a  celes- 
tial surprise — and  the  moon  rose,  silent  and  beautiful, 
like  the  embodiment  of  that  thought. 

A  panorama  of  memory  passed  before  Lance's  mind, 
embracing  pictures  of  all  the  things  he  had  observed 
during  the  day,  and  all  that  he  had  seen  since  he  came 
to  North  Carolina.  He  stood  there  alone,  with  the 
ocean  moaning  subduedly  beyond  the  sandy  dunes,  four 
miles  away,  yet  audible  through  the  plash  of  the  nearer 
waters  of  the  Sound,  across  which  the  warm  breeze 
brought  its  voice  to  him.  He  saw  in  fancy  the  green 
waves,  the  ardent  sunshine,  the  low  shore  with  lints  or 


A   YISIOX.  43 

hamlets  clustering  occasionally  in  some  favoring  nook, 
surrounded  by  evergreen  oaks  and  other  verdant 
growths  ;  the  chalky  lighthouses,  the  random  sails  of 
shore-fishers  ;  the  green,  inaccessible  marshes  that 
fringed  so  much  of  the  mainland.  The  poor  folk  he  had 
met  in  his  rambles,  hearty,  simple,  ignorant  and  super- 
stitious, came  back  to  his  eye  in  groups,  with  the  sur- 
roundings amid  which  he  had  happened  to  encounter 
them.  The  gloomy  recesses  of  Elbow  Crook  Swamp 
filled  in  the  background  of  his  memory-pictures  ;  wild 
birds  rose  and  flew  across  the  sky,  as  it  seemed  ;  and  all 
the  while  Lance  was  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  the  great 
natural  resources  of  the  region,  against  which  its  loneli- 
ness, the  prevailing  ague,  and  the  shiftless  languor  of 
the  population  opposed  themselves  as  a  dead-weight  on 
all  improvement.  Yet,  stranger  and  alone  though  he 
was,  his  soul  expanded  with  the  idea  of  somehow  better- 
ing the  condition  of  affairs  and  making  life  there 
brighter  and  more  prosperous. 

Then  he,  too,  emerged  from  revery  as  the  twilight 
had  from  its  sombreness,  and  faced  clearly  the  new 
thought  that  glowed  upon  him  like  the  large,  sweet 
moon  so  dreamily  brooding  in  the  sky. 

Suddenly  he  was  aware  of  a  shape  looming  up  in  the 
faint  moonlight  not  far  from  him  ;  the  form  of  a  woman, 
half  of  whose  body  was  concealed  by  a  curve  of  the 
ground,  in  such  a  way  that  it  might  have  been  thought 
she  was  just  rising  out  of  the  earth. 

The  woman  was  looking  seaward.  She  did  not 
observe  his  presence. 

Such  an  apparition  would,  in  any  case,  have  given 
pause  to  a  preoccupied  man  upon  whom  it  came  without 
warning  ;  but  there  was  a  special  reason  why  it  should 
affect  Lance  in  an  extraordinary  manner.  Her  face 


44  TKUE. 

offered  itself  to  him  in  profile,  and  was  so  irradiated  by 
the  nocturnal  light  that  it  came  out  clearly  against  the 
sky.  Seeing  it  thus,  Lance  was  instantly — I  might  say, 
appallingly — struck  by  its  resemblance  to  a  face  he  had 
many  times  seen,  one  that,  in  fact,  he  had  been  thinking 
about  only  a  little  while  before. 

The  face  was  like  a  darker  profile  of  Jessie  Floyd, 
touched  with  moonlight. 

At  first,  of  course,  Lance  thought  that  he  must  be 
suffering  from  hallucination  ;  that  the  day's  exposure  to 
the  sun  had  affected  his  brain  and  brought  out  in  a  visible 
form  the  thought  of  Jessie,  which  had  been  so  constantly 
with  him.  But  the  unknown  woman  stirred,  and  he  saw 
that  she  was  real.  Hereupon  he  scanned  her  more  care- 
fully, guessing  that  at  least  the  resemblance  which  he 
traced  was  an  illusion.  No  ;  it  remained  intact.  He 
could  not  get  rid  of  it.  Clearly,  the  resemblance  was 
real,  no  less  than  the  woman. 

I  have  hinted  that  Lance  was  of  a  modestly  scientific 
turn  ;  but  he  also  had  in  his  constitution  many  suscepti- 
bilities whereof  science  as  yet.  knows  little,  and  the 
phenomenon  so  abruptly  thrust  upon  his  notice  stirred 
these  susceptibilities  to  their  depths.  He  did  not  at  all 
know  what  to  make  of  it.  A  fear  crossed  him  that  he 
was  becoming  as  superstitious  as  the  ignorant  folk  on 
whom  he  had  lately  shed  the  balm  of  his  pity.  What 
did  this  strange  presence  and  resemblance  mean  or  por- 
tend ?  Was  there  not  some  omen  hidden  in  them  ? 

Another  thing  disturbed  him,  affecting  his  mind  very 
much  as  a  sudden  contact  with  the  supernatural  might 
have  done.  In  Lance's  family,  which  had  sprung  from 
England,  fragments  of  an  old  story  were  still  extant, 
about  an  ancestor  who  had  been  involved  with  one  of  the 
colonizing  expeditions  to  Virginia.  He  did  not  recall 


45 

every  particular  of  the  story,  but  sundry  items  of  it  were 
quite  distinct.  It  was  said  that  this  early  predecessor 
had  fallen  in  love  with  an  Indian  girl,  from  whom  he 
had  been  cruelly  separated  ;  or  that  he  had  come  to 
these  virgin  shores  in  search  of  some  one  whom  he  had 
lost  :  accounts  differed  as  to  that.  But  Lance's  belief 
was,  that  this  long-dead  member  of  his  long-dead  Eng- 
lish family  had  been  in  quest  of  his  plighted  wife,  and 
that  he  had  somehow  missed  her,  returning  to  England 
alone.  Virginia,  in  those  days,  included  the  territory  of 
North  Carolina — the  very  place  to  which  Lance  had 
drifted,  propelled  by  a  rather  vague  purpose  and  a  desire 
for  knowledge  as  well  as  recreation.  There  was  nothing 
very  remarkable  in  this,  perhaps.  The  young  man  him- 
self had  not  thought  much  about  it ;  for  one  does  not 
have  time,  in  the  present  age,  to  linger  over  little  coin- 
cidences and  bits  of  ancient  family  gossip.  The  old  tale 
had  once  or  twice  flitted  through  his  mind  since  his  in- 
stallation at  the  colonel's  manor,  but  it  was  not  a  thing 
he  would  have  considered  worth  mentioning. 

Nevertheless,  because  of  those  occult  susceptibilities 
which  1  have  mentioned,  at  the  moment  of  encountering 
this  mysterious  woman  with  her  face  turned  seaward,  the 
remembrance  flashed  up  over  his  mental  horizon  like  a 
kindling  beacon-fire.  A  marvelling  awe  took  hold  of 
him,  and  for  his  life  he  could  not  have  shaken  off  the 
fantasy  that  made  him  conceive  of  her  as  a  projection 
from  the  shadowy  past,  an  image  that  typified  the  lost 
mistress,  or  the  forgotten  Indian  maiden,  with  whom  his 
ancestor's  life-history  had  been  linked.  The  circum- 
stance that  she  was  gazing  eastward  also  had  an  effect 
upon  him  ;  he  could  easily  have  persuaded  himself  that 
she  was  waiting  for  her  vanished  lover  to  come  to  her 
over  the  waves. 


46  TEUE. 

But  the  fancied  resemblance  to  Jessie— that  was  the 
most  bewildering  element  of  all.  Why  should  it  occur 
to  him  ?  And  why  should  he  feel  such  an  unwonted 
shiver  running  through  his  veins  ? 

The  simplest  way  to  banish  all  this  nonsense  was, 
doubtless,  to  go  forward  and  speak  to  the  girl.  The 
good  nature  of  the  inhabitants,  Lance  knew,  made  such 
an  informality  excusable  ;  but,  as  he  was  about  to  try 
that  solution  of  his  perplexity,  and  find  out  who  this 
woman  really  was,  the  figure  began  to  descend  the  slope 
on  the  farther  side  from  him,  and  disappeared  so  noise- 
lessly that  she  seemed  to  have  crumbled  and  dropped 
back  into  the  earth  from  which  she  came. 

Lance  stood  still  ;  that  curious  warm  shiver  thrilled 
his  veins  anew.  Then  he  turned  away  and  resumed  his 
tardy  progress  toward  the  distant  manor-house,  muttering 
aloud  :  "  How  can  I  be  such  a  fool  ?" 

But  the  vision,  notwithstanding,  remained  imprinted 
on  his  consciousness,  and  troubled  him. 


CHAPTER  V. 

BIRTHDAY   TOKENS. 

THE  next  morning  ushered  in  Miss  Jessie  Floyd's 
birthday  anniversary.  The  emancipated  housemaid, 
ancient  Sally,  had  given  Lance  timely  warning  of  this 
occasion,  and  he  had  taken  the  precaution  to  send  to 
ISTew  York  for  a  present  which  he  thought  might  be  ac- 
ceptable. 


BIRTHDAY  TOKEN'S.  47 

The  question  as  to  what  sort  of  a  gift  he  should  select 
had  been  a  hard  one  to  decide.  If  the  truth  must  be 
told,  he  had  allowed  himself  the  inappropriate  but  im- 
passioned notion  that  he  would  like  to  give  her  a  ring  ; 
inappropriate  because  he  had  not  yet  succeeded  in  effect- 
ing those  preliminaries  which  justify  a  young  man  in 
giving  a  ring  to  a  young  woman  ;  though,  except  for 
that,  it  was  exactly  what  would  best  have  conveyed  his 
sentiments.  Just  why  an  ornament  for  a  lady's  hand 
should  have  this  potent  significance,  when  it  is  her  ear 
that  receives  the  lover's  confession,  was  not  perfectly 
clear  to  him  ;  yet  it  was  plain  that  there  was  no  insur- 
mountable objection  to  his  offering  Miss  Jessie  a  pair  of 
ear-drops.  He  therefore  ordered  some  pearl  ones,  hop- 
ing to  please  her.  To  please  himself,  he  ordered  a  ring. 
But  the  little  packet  which  lay  beside  her  plate  at  the 
breakfast-table,  that  morning,  contained  only  the  ear- 
drops. The  ring  was  securely  locked  in  Lance's  private 
consciousness  and  his  trunk. 

Perhaps  in  order  to  appease  his  own  self-reproaches 
for  cherishing  this  jewelled  secret,  but  also  to  prevent 
any  embarrassment  in  Jessie's  receiving  a  costly  trilie 
from  him,  Lance  thought  it  best  to  let  Colonel  Floyd 
know  of  his  intention  beforehand.  He  did  so,  late  in 
the  evening,  after  returning  from  his  solitary  expedi- 
tion. 

"  1  hope  this  will  be  quite  agreeable  to  you,  sir,"  ho 
ventured,  with  becoming  deference,  when  he  had  ex- 
plained. 

The  colonel  remembered  that  he  himself  had  once 
been  young,  and  probably  found  it  easy  to  gauge  the  ef- 
fort it  cost  his  youthful  friend  to  maintain  this  defer- 
ence in  a  case  where  he  was  positive  that  he  had  an  in- 
alienable right  to  do  as  he  pleased. 


48  TRUE. 

"  My  dear  Lance,"  he  replied,  "  neither  my  daughter 
nor  myself  can  need  any  outward  token  to  assure  us  of 
the  kindly  feeling  you  entertain  toward  us.  That  is  the 
only  reason  why  1  might  regret  that  you  have  decided 
to  offer  one.  A  simple  congratulation  or  good  wishes 
would  have  been  enough,  I  assure  you  ;  but  I  appreciate 
your  thoughtfulness,  and  Jessie,  I  am  sure,  will  be 
delighted." 

"Thank  you,  colonel.  Then  it  is  all  right,"  said 
Lance,  decisively,  feeling  as  if  he  had  just  snapped  tho 
cover  tight  over  the  pearls  and  rescued  them  from  loss. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  room  which  the  colonel,  with 
innocent  grandeur,  called  his  library,  surrounded  with  a 
few  editions  of  English  and  Latin  classics,  flanked  by 
rows  of  obsolete  works  largely  relating  to  politics  ;  and 
they  were  engaged  in  the  unseholarly  pastime  of  sipping 
whiskey  and  water.  It  may  be  that  the  beverage  had 
softened  the  colonel  into  a  pensive  mood. 

"  Speaking  of  congratulations,"  he  said,  '*'  these  anni- 
versaries begin  to  make  me  think  that  my  Jessie  perhaps 
hasn't  got  so  much  to  be  congratulated  for." 

"  I  think  she  has  a  great  deal,"  said  his  guest,  with 
some  fervor.  "  More  than  I  have,  at  any  rate.  She  still 
has  her  father — "  his  listener  smiled  sedately — "'she 
has  her  old  home,  and — and  herself  !" 

Lance  had  not  known  in  advance  that  he  was  going  to 
wind  up  with  those  words,  and  was  himself  rather 
astonished  at  them. 

The  colonel  braced  his  neck  and  looked  at  the  young 
man  somewhat  narrowly  for  an  instant  ;  after  which  ho 
subsided,  and  observed,  good-humoredly  :  "  That  is  say- 
ing a  good  deal,  too.  "What  I  had  in  mind,  however, 
was  the  changed  condition  of  everything  here — the 
melancholy  changes  that  have  come  since  the  ws.r. 


BIRTHDAY   TOKEKS.  49 

"When  Fairleigh  Park,  sir,  embraced  five  hundred  acres 
instead  of  twelve,  and  when  I  had  a  hundred  good 
niggers,  it  was  a  very  different  matter.  Why,  sir,  even 
in  this  poor  house  there  was  hardly  a  stick  or  a  rag  left 
on  my  return  from  the  field.  My  books" — here  the 
colonel  waved  his  arm  with  proprietary  pride  at  the 
faded  volumes  on  his  shelves — "  my  books  fortunately 
had  been  removed  to  Wilmington,  where  my  wife  and 
daughter  were  in  the  care  of  friends  ;  but  a  foraging 
party  of  the  Northern  soldiery  came  here,  sir,  in  my 
absence,  and,  though  there  wasn't  a  soul  opposed  them, 
they  broke  the  mirrors,  chopped  my  piano  into  kindling, 
stabbed  and  maimed  the  pictures  on  the  walls,  and  tore 
the  hangings  into  shreds.  Yes,  sir,  that  was  the  noble 
revenge  they  took  upon  me  for  daring  to  fight  in  defence 
of  my  native  land.  Ah,  I  must  not  recall  those  things, " 
he  added,  recovering  himself.  "  Thank  God,  we  are  a 
united  country  once  more,  and  I  don't  regret  my  share 
of  the  loss.  But  I  was  also  thinking,  sir,  of  Jessie's 
mother. ' ' 

The  veteran  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand,  unable  to 
speak  further.  There  was  a  quivering  of  the  muscles  in 
his  good  old,  honest,  disciplinarian  face,  that  touched 
Lance's  heart. 

"  I  can  understand  what  a  loss  that  lias  been  to  you," 
he  said,  gently — "  and  to  Miss  Jessie." 

The  colonel  raised  his  head  again,  and  looked  with 
determination  at  the  opposite  wall,  mustering  his  self- 
control. 

Lance  resumed,  with  some  hesitation,  but  impelled  to 
speak  at  this  precise  moment,  though  he  had  not  con- 
templated doing  so.  "  I — I  have  reflected  a  great  deal 
about  Miss  Jessie,"  he  said. 

Colonel  Floyd's  attention  was  prompt  and  watchful  at 


50  TRUE. 

once.  He  regarded  the  speaker  with  mingled  friendli- 
ness and  jealousy.  "  You  are  very  good,  my  friend," 
said  he. 

The  younger  man  smiled  involuntarily.  "  1  see  no 
great  merit  in  my  thinking  of  her.  I  can't  help  it." 

His  host  hemmed,  and  gave  evidence,  by  his  restless 
manner,  of  being  ill  at  ease.  "  I  don't  know  that  I 
fully  understand  you,"  he  began,  moved  by  a  conviction 
that  he  did  understand  with  the  greatest  distinctness. 

"  Well,"  said  Lance,  "  I  suppose  it  ought  to  be  very 
easy  to  explain  myself  ;  but  I  lind  it  extremely  difficult. 
I  have  thought  about  Miss  Jessie — I  \vish  it  were  possi- 
ble to  add  in  any  way  to  her  happiness." 

The  colonel  rose.  "  Pray  say  nothing  more,"  he 
begged,  not  unkindly,  but  with  some  reserve. 

"  I  will  say  nothing,  if  you  prefer,  beyond  this  :  that 
her  welfare  and  her  future  cannot  possibly  be  of  greater 
moment  to  you  than  to  me." 

Lance  looked  at  the  colonel  squarely  until  he  had 
finished,  and  then  he  dropped  his  eyes.  There  was  no 
mistaking  the  purport  of  his  tone,  which  went  farther 
than  his  words. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  the  colonel,  stretching  out  his 
hand,  "  from  what  I  have  seen  of  you  1  like  you  ;  I 
may  say,  I  esteem  you.  If  you  have  anything  to  say 
which  concerns  Jessie  more  than  it  does  me,  tell  it  to 
her." 

The  other  accepted  his  hand,  and  pressed  it.  They 
stood  thus  for  a  moment,  before  parting  for  the  night, 
and  Lance  saw  that  the  old  soldier  approved  of  him.  A 
strange  feeling  also  came  over  him,  that  his  host  and  he 
met  not  so  much  on  the  basis  of  a  possible  father-and- 
son  relationship  as  on  that  of  brotherhood.  There  was  a 
community  in  their  love  for  Jessie  ;  each  felt  the  depth 


BIRTHDAY   TOKENS.  51 

of  the  other's  devotion  to  her,  different  though  it  was 
from  his  own  ;  and  to  Lance  this  mutual  trust  was  of 
good  omen. 

Before  the  breakfast-hour  they  met  again  in  the 
pleasant  dining-room.  The  colonel  was  mixing  a  mint- 
julep  by  an  open  window  which  gave  upon  the  garden. 

11  I'm  not  feeling  quite  well,"  he  said,  "  and  so  con- 
cluded to  tone  myself  up  a  little.  It's  a  great  thing  to 
have  a  Virginian's  grave  in  your  garden." 

"  Virginian's  grave"  was  .the  facetious  term,  as  Lance 
had  learned,  applied  to  a  bed  of  mint  ;  in  allusion  to  the 
theory  that  where  a  Virginia  gentleman  is  buried  the 
plant  essential  to  his  favorite  beverage  in  life  will  spring 
up  and  multiply. 

He  laughingly  declined  to  share  in  the  refreshment, 
and  the  two  said  little  to  each  other.  Their  talk  of  the 
night  before  lingered  with  them  in  the  form  of  a  slight 
constraint,  mixed  with  suspense. 

But  Jessie  put  all  this  to  flight,  when  she  slipped  into 
the  room  fresh  as  the  morning  sunbeams.  She  was 
quick  to  notice  the  white  packet  on  the  table. 

"  Oh,  how  lovely  of  you,  pa,"  she  exclaimed  as  she 
opened  it,  "  to  take  so  much  trouble  !  Why,  they're 
exquisite  !" 

She  held  the  case  up  admiringly. 

The  colonel  glanced  over  at  their  guest,  a  slight  smile 
wrinkling  his  bronzed  cheeks  with  fine  lines  like  those  in 
old  engravings  ;  and  there  was  a  trace  of  guiltiness  in  his 
look,  as  if  he  and  Lance  had  been  fellow  conspirators. 

"  Don't  thank  me,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "  It's  Mr. 
Lance  who  was  lovely. " 

"  Oh  !"  cried  Jessie.  She  fastened  her  eyes  on 
Lance,  with  a  sort  of  reproach  ;  and  his  heart  sank. 
"  They're  beautiful,  though,"  she  continued.  "  Thank 


52  TRUE. 

you  so  much,  Mr.  Lance.  Then  you  didn't  get  anything 
for  me,  pa  ?  "Well,  I  shall  have  a  kiss,  anyway."  And 
she  ran  toward  him. 

The  old  man's  gray  mustache  appeared  to  revive,  as 
he  received  the  salute  and  gave  one  in  return.  "  Look 
under  your  plate,  child,"  he  said,  "  and  you'll  find  some- 
thing, will  do  to  give  you  a  treat  when  we  go  up  to  the 
races  at  IsTewbern." 

Jessie  trotted  back  to  her  place,  and  the  treasure 
under  the  plate  proved  to  be  a  gold  eagle.  Another 
demonstration  of  filial  fondness  ensued,  and  they  all  sat 
down  in  a  good  humor  ;  albeit  Lance  suffered  a  feeling 
of  unenviable  exclusion. 

But  in  a  moment  or  two  Jessie  jumped  up  again, 
and,  with  the  earrings  in  her  hand,  went  to  the  glass  to 
put  them  on.  She  faced  around  brightly  from  her  re- 
flected image  there,  to  thank  Lance  again.  "  I  never 
dreamed  of  getting  anything  so  nice,"  she  said,  frankly. 

And  Lance  told  himself  that  he,  on  the  contrary,  had 
many  times  dreamed  of  some  creature  as  captivating  as 
she  was,  but  had  never  quite  expected  to  find  the  reali- 
zation. He  wondered  how,  in  this  solitude  and  with  no 
one  to  set  her  the  example,  she  could  have  grown  up 
into  such  charming  womanliness. 

The  doors  of  Fairleigh  Manor,  excepting  in  the  most 
inclement  weather,  stood  always  open — a  symbol  of  the 
owner's  frank  and  hospitable  heart.  And  now  when  the 
breakfast  was  over  and  Jessie  had  betaken  herself  wTith 
the  two  gentlemen  to  the  little  morning-room  across  the 
hall,  a  train  of  darkies — men  and  women — presented 
itself  at  the  entrance,  bringing  good  wishes  and  simple 
gifts  to  their  young  mistress.  First  of  all  came  old 
Sally,  who  folded  the  fair  maiden  in  her  faithful  arms 
and  covered  her  forehead  and  neck  with  kisses.  Lance, 


BIRTHDAY  TOKENS.  53 

with  his  abstract  theories  of  equality  and  Ins  concrete 
prejudices,  which  made  equality  impossible,  was  rather 
amazed  at  this  proceeding.  He  did  not  relish  the 
spectacle  of  the  black  face  in  such  close  proximity  to  the 
white  one.  Involuntarily  he  turned  toward  the  colonel, 
expecting  to  find  in  him  some  support  for  his  own  dis- 
pleasure ;  but  there  was  a  kindly  light  in  the  colonel's 
eye,  and  he  looked  on  with  approval  as  the  servants  ap- 
proached, one  after  another,  to  give  greeting  in  their 
several  ways — the  women  with  less  effusion  than  was 
permitted  to  Sally,  and  the  men  with  awkward  bows  or 
friendly  grins  that  attested  their  speechless  affection. 
Those  who  shared  in  this  demonstration  were  elderly 
servants  who  had  once  been  slaves,  though  they  were 
accompanied  by  a  few  younger  ones — their  children, 
born  in  freedom.  They  all  brought  flowers  and  leaves  ; 
the  fragrant  yellow  jessamine  being  a  favorite  form  of 
tribute,  alternating  with  festoons  of  the  trailing  vines 
found  in  Elbow  Crook  Swamp,  baskets  adorned  with 
gray  moss,  and  little  ornaments  of  woven  straw. 

The  colonel's  face  grew  radiant  and  tender  as  he 
watched  them.  "  Faithful  creatures  !"  he  said,  in 
undertone  to  Lance.  "  Most  of  my  people  stayed  by  me 
when  the  fight  was  over.  1  told  them  they  were  free  to 
go  where  they  liked,  that  they  didn't  belong  to  me  any 
more,  and  I  couldn't  tell  whether  I  could  give  them  work 
— much  less  support  them.  But  they  wouldn't  go. 
They  clung  round  me  ;  and  little  by  little  we  all  got  on 
our  feet  again.  They  said  :  '  Ton's  been  a  good  massa 
to  us,  and  we  ain't  gwine  to  leave  you  now  yore  in 
trouble,  Massa  Gunnel.'  And  so  we  built  up,  together, 
what  small  prosperity  there  is  here  now.  I  had  fed  and 
clothed  them,  Lance,  and  spent  many  thousand  dollars 
in  buying  them,  but  they  did  not  forget  everything,  as 


54  TRUE. 

many  white  people  do.  I  little  thought  it  would  be  my 
old  slaves  who  would  help  me  out  in  the  hour  of  need — 
I  to  whom  they  had  always  looked  for  help.  But  so  it 
was.  My  God,  it  has  been  worth  all  the  cost  and  the 
suffering  !  We  are  more  human  than  we  were." 

The  veteran  planter  was  deeply  affected  ;  and,  as  he 
spoke,  a  mist  seemed  to  clear  away  from  the  young  man's 
mind,  and  he  beheld  the  simple  ceremony  that  was  tak- 
ing place,  in  a  transfigured  light. 

Here,  close  to  his  -  eyes,  was  an  act  in  the  endless 
changes  and  developments  through  which  humanity  is 
forever  passing  :  the  lifting  np,  the  pulling  down,  the 
growth  of  new  types  and  phases,  the  subsidence  of  old 
forms  of  life,  accompanied  by  the  survival  of  certain 
among  their  features. 

One  of  the  negroes,  bolder  than  the  rest,  after  wish- 
ing Jessie  happiness  all  her  days,  said  he  knew  it  wasn't 
right  to  ask  her  for  anything  now,  but  if  she  "  would  only 
give  him  a  little  book  to  read  in."  .  .  .  The  book  was  in- 
stantly forthcoming.  Jessie  went  to  her  secretary,  and 
took  one  from  the  slender  row  of  volumes  on  its  upper 
shelf.  But  at  this  Sally  came  forward  again. 

"  Why,  missy,"  she  said  softly,  in  Jessie's  ear,  where 
Lance's  pearl  was  trembling,  "  ole  Sci'p  ain't  no  'count. 
He  war  on'y  coachman,  you  know,  befo'.  He  didn't 
nevah  b'long  to  you  and  the  missus.  But  I  come  from 
yc?  side  de  house,  yo'  know  I  does  ;  and  now  yo'  dun 
gone  give  him  suffin',  why  I'd  kin'  o'  like  dat  ar  pink 
frock  what  you  mos'  got  fru  wearin'.  'Tain't  good  null 
for  yo',  nohow,  missy,  and  ole  Sally  she'd  be  mighty 
glad  on't,  ef  you  don'  want  it  no  mo'." 

So  Jessie  laughed,  and  sent  Sally  up-stairs  to  get  the 
garment  of  her  desire  ;  and  from  that  moment  on  the 
reception  was  metamorphosed  into  an  exchange  of  gifts. 


A   NEW   LESSON   IN   BOTANY.  55 

The  darkies  brought  in  their  vines  and  clusters,  and 
laid  them  on  the  table  or  draped  them  with  primitive  art 
nbout  the  room,  until  it  became  a  sort  of  bower,  verdant 
and  perfumed  with  their  offerings  ;  and  Jessie  sat  there 
like  an  unaffected  little  queen,  distributing  tokens  to  this 
and  that  adherent.  She  knew  their  humble  demands 
were  not  prompted  by  greed,  but  that  they  simply  loved 
the  old  custom  of  receiving  something  from  their  mis- 
tress, and  could  not  give  it  up  even  though  times  were 
so  greatly  changed. 

Lance  had  now  fully  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the 
scene,  and  the  fancy  struck  him  that  it  was  a  repetition 
of  the  old  story  of  savages  on  the  New  World  shores 
worshipping  the  first  white  person  who  came  among 
them. 

What  if  these  negroes  had  been  the  aborigines,  and 
his  Jessie — or  Miss  Jessie,  rather — had  been  that  Ger- 
trude Wylde  whom  tradition  told  of,  receiving  their 
homage  ?  The  idle  query  of  imagination,  thus  pro- 
pounded, brought  up  to  him  with  renewed  force  the 
vision,  still  unexplained,  which  had  crossed  his  path  on 
the  sea-shore. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


A   NEW    LESSON    IN   BOTANY. 


IN  the  cool  of  the  afternoon  the  Floyds  and  their 
guest  took  a  drive,  rattling  gayly  on,  in  the  old  carry-all, 
which  was  the  colonel's  chariot  of  state,  over  many 


56  TRUE. 

miles  of  light-earthed  road  screened  for  the  most  part 
by  groves  of  pine. 

The  old  gentleman  discoursed  to  Lance  a  good  deal 
about  the  country  and  the  people,  and  gave  vent  to  his 
natural  regret  that  the  class  once  dominant  had  yielded 
more  and  more  to  a  hard,  pushing  set,  who  were  no 
doubt  doing  much  to  increase  the  general  welfare,  but 
lacked  the  graces  and  the  repose  of  the  whilom  aristoc- 
racy. The  y.oung  Northerner's  own  conviction  was 
that  the  old  aristocracy  had  succumbed  to  a  relentless  law 
of  nature,  for  which  he  entertained  the  admiration  that 
he  believed  all  natural  laws  were  entitled  to  ;  but  he 
could  not  help  regretting  somewhat  the  fate  that  had 
overcome  his  friends  and  their  kind  ;  and  it  was  borne 
in  upon  him  strongly  that  so  fine  a  flower  of  heredity 
as  Jessie  appeared  to  be — however  defective  the  structure 
of  the  species  to  which  she  belonged — ought  not  to  be 
involved  in  this  decadence. 

You  will  observe  that  I  am  giving  you  his  thoughts  in 
the  formal  and  strictly  rational  phraseology  which  it 
pleased  him  to  adopt.  Plainly  speaking,  he  was  very 
much  in  love  with  Jessie,  and  did  not  care  a  rap  about 
natural  laws  or  anything  else,  if  they  conflicted  with  her 
happiness  or  his  chances  of  winning  her. 

Meanwhile,  as  they  passed  Elbow  Crook  Swamp, 
which  the  road  skirted  for  a  considerable  distance,  he 
reverted,  with  every  appearance  of  absorbed  interest,  to 
his  scheme  for  reclaiming  that  tract  and  converting  it 
into  a  source  of  wealth  and  the  means  of  building  up  a 
prosperous,  highly  intelligent  community.  The  swamp 
covered  a  territory  of  many  hundreds  of  acres.  It  was 
rank  with  cypress,  evergreen,  oak,  and  laurel,  from  which 
parasitic  gray  mosses  depended  in  endless  garlands, 
locked  in  the  embrace  of  luxuriant  vines,  that  hung  or 


A   NEW  LESSON  IN   BOTANY.  57 

crept  down  to  the  edge  of  that  slow  brown  stream,  the 
angular  turnings  of  which  gave  the  place  its  name.  The 
rich,  alluvial  soil  in  which  all  this  greenery  rooted  held 
a  promise  of  unlimited  fertility  ;  but  the  only  profit 
which  men  derived  from  tha  splendid  waste  was  found 
in  the  cane-brakes,  that  yielded  succulent  fodder  for 
hogs  or  cattle.  Lance  imagined  in  this  wild  expanse  a 
possibility  of  great  results,  which  might  play  in  well 
with  his  humanitarian  schemes.  He  had  brooded  over 
the  matter  ever  since  first  seeing  the  spot  ;  but  the  com- 
mercial and  educational  interest  attaching  thereto  was 
not  the  only  one  that  kept  him  thinking  about  it.  Its 
mysteriousness,  its  lone  solemnity  ;  the  frowning  masses 
of  dense  and  forbidding  trees  ;  its  impenetrability  in 
parts  ;  the  danger  and  savageness  of  its  hidden  depths — 
all  these  had  wrought  upon  and  excited  him,  until  it  be- 
came impossible  for  him  to  get  the  swamp  out  of  his 
mind,  and  he  felt  that  it  was  somehow  connected  with 
his  destiny. 

In  answer  to  his  exposition  of  his  schemes,  the  colonel, 
who  was  fond  of  a  classical  allusion,  said  :  "That's  all 
very  fine,  Lance  ;  but  you  propose  a  labor  beside  which 
Hercules  slaying  the  Lernean  Hydra  would  be  insignifi- 
cant. You  know,  that  myth  is  supposed  to  refer  to  the 
draining  of  a  morass.  Hercules  was  the  first  man  who 
discovered  the  still  mythical  disease  of  malaria,  and  tried 
to  kill  it." 

But  Lance  was  not  to  be  discouraged  by  banter. 
"When  they  got  back  to  the  mansion  the  colonel 
judiciously  disappeared,  and  the  two  young  people 
were  left  alone  on  the  veranda.  Lance  began  to  talk 
over  his  theories  anew  with  Jessie,  as  they  sat  there 
just  outside  the  window  of  the  morning-room  whence 
the  ecent  of  the  pine-boughs,  the  jessamine,  and  flow- 


58  TRUE. 

ering  vines  drifted  toward  them  in  occasional  puffs  of 
fragrant  air. 

"  The  people  here  need  so  much  help,  so  much 
enlightening,"  he  said.  "  I  can't  give  up  the  idea  that 
something  might  be  done  in  the  way  of  elevating  them." 

"  Oh,  that's  only  because  you're  so  restless,"  said 
Jessie.  "  You  come  from  the  I^orth,  and  you  find  it  so 
*  dull  here  that  you  have  to  think  of  something  to  keep 
you  busy." 

Her  lips  pretended  that  they  were  smiling  with  in- 
dolent mockery  ;  but  she  looked  so  charming,  and  the 
contrast  between  her  gray  eyes  and  the  Spanish  jaunti- 
ness  of  her  dark  hair  was  so  attractive,  that  the  young 
man  began  to  think  opposition  was  the  pleasantest  form 
of  encouragement. 

"No,"  he  said,  quite  earnestly;  "I  don't  think  it's 
mere  restlessness.  I  mean  what  I  say,  and  I  can't  help 
it.  And  certainly  it  isn't  dull  here  for  me." 

He  fixed  his  eyes  for  a  moment  on  the  boards  of  the 
veranda-floor,  as  if  meditating.  Jessie,  in  her  turn, 
considered  him.  In  his  loose  blue  flannel  suit,  with  a 
soft  straw  hat  perched  upon  his  thoughtful  head,  but 
throwing  no  shadow  on  his  features,  to  which  a  small 
brown  mustache  gave  additional  emphasis,  he  certainly 
was  handsome  ;  she  had  never  denied  to  herself  that  he 
was  handsome,  but  she  was  just  now  especially  i  mpressed 
with  the  fact. 

11 1  am  going  to  tell  you  something  curious,"  he  said, 
lifting  his  eyes  unexpectedly,  so  that  she  turned  hers 
quickly  toward  the  garden.  He  had  evidently  arrived 
at  the  result  of  his  meditation.  "It  has  several  times 
occurred  to  me,"  he  continued,  "  that  my  interest  in  this 
locality  may  have  a  queer,  remote  sort  of  origin  that  no 
one  would  ever  suspect." 


A    NEW   LESSOR   IN   BOTANY.  59 

"  "Why,  what's  that  ?"  asked  Jessie,  in  a  dreamy  tone, 
feeling  sure  now  that  he  could  not  be  going  to  speak  of 
her,  since  she  was  neither  "  queer"  nor  "  remote." 

Thereupon  Lance  went  on  to  relate  to  her  the  legend 
of  Gertrude  Wylde  and  Guy  Wharton,  as  well  as  he 
could  from  the  stories  which  he  remembered  to  have 
heard  half  jestingly  repeated  in  his  father's  household. 
"  I  am  directly  descended  from  Guy  AVharton,"  he 
stated,  in  conclusion,  "  but  my  name  is  different,  because 
the  male  line  died  out  and  my  father  belonged  to  the 
posterity  of  one  of  the  daughters.  It's  true,  all  that 
romance  happened  a  hundred  miles  or  more  from  here, 
way  up  by  Roanoke,  and  I  didn't  think  of  it  in  the  least 
when  I  started  to  make  this  visit  ;  but,  some  way  or 
other,  the  thing  has  come  back  into  my  mind,  and  I 
begin  to  fancy  that  by  an  occult  law  of  thought  it  may 
account  for  my  interest  in  this  place — at  least,  partly." 

Jessie  was  absorbed  by  his  narration,  as  her  attentive- 
ness  and  her  eager  interruptions  had  shown  ;  but  what 
she  said  was  :  "It  must  be  a  very  occult  law  indeed." 
She  also  emitted  a  little  impertinent  laugh,  which  she 
did  not  mean  to  be  impertinent. 

Lance  was  somewhat  taken  aback.  "  I  dare  say  it's 
all  foolishness,"  he  admitted  ;  "  and  there  are  other 
elements  of  interest  which  are  much  more  obvious." 

She  was  sorry  to  have  brought  such  confusion  upon 
him,  and  hastened  to  revive  the  conversation. 

They  got  to  talking  about  the  negroes  ;  and  Lance, 
alluding  to  the  scene  that  morning,  proceeded  to  specu- 
late on  the  problem  of  the  colored  race.  "  There  is 
something  very  fine  in  their  relation  to  you,"  he  said, 
"  but  it  belongs  to  a  phase  that  has  passed  away.  They 
ought  to  be  educated,  too." 

"  I'm  sure,"  Jessie  answered,  "  we  educate  them  as 


GO  TRUE. 

much  as  we  can.  Didn't  you  see  ine  give  Scip  a  book  ? 
And  I've  helped  to  cultivate  Aunt  Sally's  aesthetic  tastes 
by  letting  her  have  my  pink  frock.  "What  more  can  you 
ask  ?" 

"  You  insist  upon  making  fun  of  me,"  said  Lance, 
forcing  a  smile,  though  a  trifle  mortified  by  her  lack  of 
enthusiasm.  "  But  you  know  I'm  right." 

"  Indeed  I  don't  know  it  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Jessie, 
vigorously.  "  You  want  to  change  everything,  but  you 
can't  tell  what  you  would  get  by  the  change.  You 
would  like  to  cut  down  those  splendid  old  trees  in  the 
swamp,  and  turn  it  into  fresh  vegetables  and  berries  for 
New  York.  But  the  trees  are  much  nobler  than  the 
berries,  or  even  wild-flowers." 

"  Oh  no,  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  they're  not !"  said 
Lance.  "  Most  of  the  trees  around  here  are  simply 
monsters.  They  represent  rude,  primitive  types  of 
vegetation  ;  they  are  the  earliest  specimens  of  Nature's 
effort  to  produce  flowering  plants.  Why,  the  common 
ox-eye  daisy  is  a  far  more  refined  product  than  they." 

"  Oh,  dear  me,"  cried  Jessie,  "  I  never  heard  that. 
How  much  you  know  !  But  1  like  daisies,  too  ;  I  don't 
want  any  of  these  things  destroyed." 

"  Theysha'n't  be,  then,"  Lance  declared,  with  offhand 
omnipotence. 

After  that,  he  branched  out  into  an  informal  lecture 
on  the  relationships  of  various  plants  and  flowers,  trying, 
in  the  sketchy  way  that  he  had  learned  from  cheerfully 
popular  books  of  science,  to  give  her  some  conception  of 
the  evolution  of  new  types  and  the  persistence  of  old 
ones  in  the  flora  of  the  earth,  together  with  the  mani- 
fold delicate  ties  of  kinship  between  the  different  existing 
forms. 

"  Then,  they  are  all  one  big  family  !"  said  Jessie,  her 


A   NEW   LESSON   IN   BOTANY.  01 

face  lighting  with  a  sympathy  that  Lance  reverently 
recorded  as  being  maternal.  She  was  as  much  pleased  as 
if  she  had  discovered  a  new  set  of  thoroughly  desirable 
relatives.  "But  oh,  Mr.  Lance,"  she  added,  quickly 
reflecting,  "  doesn't  that  prove  that  all  these  types  have 
got  to  exist  ?  You  say  that  after  one  crude  attempt  has 
been  followed  by  a  better  development,  specimens  of  the 
old  sort  continue — like  the  pine  trees.  Now,  it  seems  to 
me  that  it's  just  the  same  with  the  human  family. 
We're  all  related,  but  we're  very  unlike  ;  and  while 
some  of  us  have  gone  on  improving,  the  others  have 
stayed  just  as  they  were.  The  negroes  and  the  poor 
whites  around  here  are  our  monsters — for  you  say  the 
pine  trees  are  monsters — but  if  we  have  the  pines,  why 
shouldn't  we  have  the  others  ?" 

She  clapped  her  hands,  in  her  glee  at  the  argument 
she  had  discovered  ;  and  it  must  be  admitted  that  Lance 
was  nonplussed  by  her  swift  sagacity. 

"  But  then  you  must  remember,"  he  said,  after  paus- 
ing, "  that  the  human  creation  has  a  much  greater 
capacity  for  growth  than  the  vegetable  ;  and  we  ought  to 
help  it  forward  in  its  growth.  There's  Sylvester  De 
Yine  as  an  example.  See  how  he's  rising  above  his  con- 
dition !  I  take  the  greatest  interest  in  that  young 
fellow,  and  I  believe  I'm  bound  to  assist  him  as  far  as  I 
can." 

"  Yes,  that's  true,"  Jessie  acknowledged.  "  But  it's 
very  nice  to  have  all  these  contrasts.  I  don't  want  them 
abolished." 

Lance  could  not  but  be  aware  that  he  didn't  want 
them  abolished,  either.  Would  he  have  been  willing  to 
obliterate  all  the  differences  that  existed  between  Jessie 
and  the  majority  of  the  surrounding  population  ?  Did 
he  want  all  other  women  to  be  just  like  her  2  On  the 


62  TRUE. 

contrary,  the  reason  why  lie  preferred  her  was  that  she 
represented  a  higher  development,  a  "  more  specialized" 
form,  an  exception  to  the  common  mass  of  inferior 
beings. 

"  You're  right,"  he  said.  "  It  is  nice  to  have  the 
contrasts.  I  admit  myself  vanquished." 

In  her  triumph  Jessie  rose  from  the  cane  chair  where 
she  had  sat  reclining.  "  Oh,  how  splendid  !''  she  cried. 
"  I  never  expected  such  a  victory.  I  must  find  pa,  and 
tell  him  how  I've  vanquished  you." 

Lance  also  rose,  but  to  detain  her.  "  Don't  go  yet," 
he  said  ;  "  I  have  something  else  to  say.  You  have 
conquered  me  in  another  way,  too,  and  I  want  to  hear 
from  you  whether  you  will  accept  my  surrender. "  In 
saying  this  he  drew  a  little  closer,  and  gazed  with  earnest 
expectancy  into  her  face. 

The  sudden  stillness  and  frightened  silence  with  which 
Jessie  at  first  met  his  advance  were  not  exactly  what  one 
would  expect  in  a  conqueror.  After  an  instant,  how- 
ever, she  regained  her  self-possession.  Her  natural 
merriment  and  archness  returned  as  she  asked,  with  her 
head  leaning  sideward  :  "  Is  the  surrender  unconditional, 
Mr.  Lance  ?" 

"  ~No.  There  is  one  condition,  of  supreme  impor- 
tance. Ah  !  Miss  Jessie,  you  understand.  AVill  you 
listen  to  me  ?" 

"  I  can't  promise,  but  I'll  try,"  said  Jessie,  in  a 
faltering  tone.  Imperceptibly,  as  it  were,  she  resumed 
her  place  in  the  chair,  and  waited.  The  sun  was  declin- 
ing ;  a  faint  rumor  of  odd  clacking  cries  came  from  the 
turkey-field  at  the  end  of  the  grounds  ;  but  otherwise 
the  air  was  still,  and  a  spicy  coolness  stole  in  to  them 
from  the  pine-plantations  and  the  distant  Sound.  "  Now 
tell  me,"  she  said,  softly. 


A    NEW   LESSON    IN    BOTANY.  63 

You  may  bo  sure  Lance  eagerly  complied.  "With  an 
eloquence  that  had  never  been  his  before,  he  told  her 
what  he  thought  of  her  ;  how  he  loved  her,  and  wished 
her  to  be  his  wife.  In  his  confession  he  likewise 
mingled  unpremeditated  touches  about  the  daisies  and 
the  pines,  and  all  that  marvel  of  nature  of  which  they 
had  been  talking  ;  and  he  made  her  see  how  te  him  she 
was  the  culminating  blossom  of  creation. 

"  If  you  could  only  guess/'  he  ended,  hopeless  of 
conveying  all  that  he  wished  to,  "  what  a  delight  your 
presence  is  to  me — how  it  is  almost  enough  just  to  look 
at  you  and  watch  every  movement  that  you  make  !" 

So  fine  and  frank  was  Jessie's  maiden  mind,  that  she 
no  longer  thought  of  concealment.  "  Why,  then  you 
know,"  she  answered,  with  the  surprise  of  a  child,  "  ex- 
actly how  I  feel  about  you  /" 

I  do  not  care  to  describe  what  happened  after  that  ; 
for  in  the  first  place  it  belongs  only  to  those  two  lovers, 
and  in  the  second  place  I  know  it  could  not  be  described 
without  tarnishing  the  pure  beauty  of  it. 

In  the  long  interchange  of  confidences  that  followed 
their  union,  Lance  was  moved  to  tell  Jessie  of  the 
woman  he  had  seen  in  the  moonlight,  the  night  before. 
"  Strange,  that  she  should  have  made  me  think  of  you 
and  of  the  old  Wharton  story,  isn't  it  ?  "Who  do  you 
suppose  she  could  have  been  ?" 

"  I  can't  imagine,"  said  Jessie.  "  Perhaps  you  had  a 
moonstroke  ;  isn't  there  such  a  thing?  Or,  perhaps  it 
was  a  ghost. ' ' 

When  they  came  in  to  tea  they  found  the  colonel 
carefully  dozing  over  the  market  columns  of  his  news- 
paper. "May  I  go  and  get  the  ring?"  whispered 
Lance,  who  had  owned  to  her  the  secret  of  his  hopeful 
purchase. 


64:  TRUE. 

Jessie  gave  a  silent  assent.  He  returned  quickly,  and 
slipped  the  emblem  on  to  her  finger. 

' '  Mr.  Lance  has  been  telling  me  the  most  wonderful 
things  !"  said  Jessie  to  her  father,  as  they  sat  at  table. 
"  All  about  flowers  and  legends  and  ghosts." 

She  was  holding  up  a  cup  at  that  instant,  for  the  ser- 
vant to  take,  and  the  colonel  noticed  the  sparkle  of  the 
new  ring  on  her  hand.  His  eyes  threw  back  an  answer- 
ing sparkle  ;  he  gazed  fondly  at  his  daughter  for  an  in- 
stant, and  then,  with  forgiving  kindness,  at  Lance. 

"Miss  Jessie  refers  to  an  old  family  history,"  the 
young  man  hastily  explained.  "  I  mean  the  "Wyldes 
and  Whartons.  It  wouldn't  seem  so  wonderful  to  you, 
sir." 

The  colonel  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  with 
raised  eyebrows.  "  The  Wyldes  !"  he  exclaimed. 
"  You  never  told  me  you  knew  my  family  history. 
How  does  it  happen  ?  Or  is  it,  perhaps,  only  a  coinci- 
dence of  name  2  By  George,  it  strikes  me  as  very 
wonderful  !" 

As  Lance,  in  his  turn,  showed  equal  astonishment,  it 
became  necessary  for  him  to  ask  questions  ;  and,  by  a 
rapid  interchange  of  replies,  they  arrived  at  an  extraor- 
dinary revelation.  The  colonel  raked  out  from  his 
library  a  dingy  and  ruinous  old  "  family  tree,"  by  which 
ocular  demonstration  was  given  of  his  descent  from  a 
branch  of  the  identical  Surrey  Wyldes  that  the  Gertrude 
of  Lance's  story  belonged  to.  Puzzling  out  the  different 
lines  on  the  old  diagram,  which  represented  a  trunk  and 
branches,  with  here  and  there  a  big  circle  like  some  im- 
possible fruit  or  an  abnormal  knot  in  the  wood  of  the 
"  tree" — the  said  knots  or  circles  representing  fathers  of 
families — they  ascertained  that  the  Miss  Wylde  whose 
life-current  had  long  ago  blended  with  that  of  the  Floyds 


A   NEW  LESSON  IN  BOTANY.  65 

was  a  first  cousin  of  Gertrude  Wylde,  who  had  been  Guy 
Wharton's  lady-love. 

The  colonel  glowed  with  interest  and  enthusiasm.  "  I 
never  came  upon  anything  more  thrilling,"  he  declared, 
roundly. 

"  But  you  never  said  a  word  about  the  Wyldes/'  said 
Jessie,  to  Lance.  "  If  you  had,  I  could  have  told  you 
there  was  some  connection  between  us  and  them." 

"I  didn't  think  of  it,"  he  assured  her,  "because 
there  was  a  sort  of  doubt  in  my  mind  whether  the  girl 
was  English  or  an  Indian — as  I  told  you.  But  I  knew 
the  name  of  Wylde  was  mixed  up  with  the  affair,  any- 
how ;  and  the  more  I  reflect  upon  it,  the  more  cleaily 
it  comes  back  to  me  that  Gertrude  Wylde  was  the 
woman  whom  Guy  Wharton  came  to  this  country  to 
find,  and  who  was  lost  here." 

They  referred  once  more  to  the  "family  tree,"  and 
detected  there,  surely  enough,  a  small  branch  terminat- 
ing suddenly  with  the  names  of  Matthew  Wylde  and  his 
daughter  Gertrude,  accompanied  by  the  inscription  : 
"Emigrated  to  America,  1587." 

The  colonel,  much  excited,  now  brought  forth  a  faded 
tome  devoted  to  the  history  of  North  Carolina.  Turn- 
ing its  pages,  he  unearthed  the  record  of  Raleigh's  ex- 
pedition and  the  search-party  that  came  after  it.  But  the 
names  of  the  emigrants,  of  course,  were  not  given. 

"  I  remember,"  said  he,  musingly,  "that  I  read  cf 
this  incident,  years  ago,  and  was  struck  with  it.  But  I 
should  never  have  imagined  that  it  concerned  a  collateral 
branch  of  my  own  ancestry.  How  singular  !  The 
Floyds  immigrated  to  this  country  long  after  that  time, 
and  yet  here  am  I,  their  representative,  who  have  spent 
my  life  in  this  spot,  so  near  where  Gertrude  Wylde  dis- 
appeared from  civilization — and  I  never  knew  of  it  !" 


66  TRUE. 

The  discovery  supplied  them  with  a  theme  for  medita- 
tion and  remark,  that  lasted  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

Jessie  bestirred  herself,  in  the  midst  of  a  revery  which 
had  enveloped  all  three,  after  they  had  talked  for  some 
time,  saying  :  "  How  much  it's  like  the  flowers  !  We're 
all  one  great  family — at  least,  nearly  one." 

"  Yes,"  echoed  Lance,  "  nearly  one  !" 

She  blushed,  and  rose  to  say  good-night. 

After  she  had  gone,  the  colonel  came  to  Lance  and, 
drawing  his  arm  around  him,  said  :  "  God  bless  you,  my 
boy — and  her.  I  see  how  it  is,  and  I'm  satisfied." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Lance;  "except  that  no  man  is 
good  enough  for  her." 

What  a  night  that  was  !  Did  ever  darkness  close 
round  a  pair  more  happy  than  Lance  and  Jessie  ?  The 
great  heavens  seemed  to  Lance  the  only  canopy  that 
overhung  his  slumbers  ;  for  the  thoughts  and  images  that 
filled  his  dreaming  brain  rose  beyond  the  barriers  of  roof 
and  wall,  and  included  a  vast  realm  of  peaceful  joy,  in 
which  the  stars  burned  ever  mildly.  He  had  taken  a 
spray  of  the  yellow  jessamine  with  him  to  his  room.  He 
fancied  that  its  fragrance  repeated  to  him  all  night  long, 
in  untranslatable  sweetness,  the  name  so  like  its  own  and 
now  so  dear  to  him:  "Jessie — Jessie — Jessie."  And 
the  knowledge  that  she  was  a  late  comer  in  the  line  of 
the  woman  whom  his  ancestor  had  loved,  contributed 
still  another  element  to  his  trance  of  silent  rejoicing. 

Yet,  through  the  whole  delicious  maze  of  happiness, 
he  was  aware  of  a  surmise  which  had  not  presented  itself 
while  he  had  been  awake.  It  was  this  :  since  Jessie  had 
the  Wylde  blood  in  her  veins,  and  the  woman  whom  he 
had  met  by  the  shore  so  strongly  suggested  a  resemblance 
to  Jessie,  might  there  not  be  some  hidden  bond  between 
them,  dating  from  the  lost  Gertrude  ? 


THE   EACES,    AND  THE   MOTTO.  67 

CHAPTER  YIL 

THE    RACES,    AND    THE    MOTTO. 

IT  so  happened  that  Lance,  up  to  this  point  in  his 
sojourn  with  the  Floyds,  had  never,  to  his  knowledge, 
seen  Adela  Reefe,  although  she  had  come  once  or  twice 
to  the  house  while  he  was  there.  On  a  single  occasion 
he  had  ridden  with  Jessie  to  the  cottage  at  the  headland, 
and  had  met  "the  De  Vine  hoys."  Becoming  in- 
terested in  Sylvester  and  his  ambitions,  lie  had  stopped 
to  see  him  at  other  times  in  the  course  of  his  excursions 
roundabout,  and  had  also  received  one  or  two  visits  from 
him  at  Fairleigh  Park.  He  had,  to  be  sure,  heard  some- 
thing of  Adela  Reefe  ;  bub  the  fact  that  he  lacked  the 
smallest  idea  as  to  what  she  looked  like  was  the  absent 
link  in  his  knowledge,  which  made  it  impossible  to  guess 
who  the  mysterious  girl  of  the  night  encounter  might  be. 
In  fact,  he  never  so  much  as  thought  of  Adela,  and  he 
gave  up  the  riddle  as  one  not  likely  to  be  solved.  But 
an  event  was  now  approaching  which  brought  him  sud- 
den enlightenment. 

The  date  of  the  races  to  be  held  at  Newbern  had  been 
fixed —somewhat  early  in  the  season,  it  is  true — for  a  time 
shortly  after  the  occurrences  which  I  have  already 
described  ;  and  this  affair  was  the  excuse  for  a  general 
rally  of  inhabitants  from  the  surrounding  districts. 
Colonel  Floyd  meant  to  attend  it,  with  a  large  part  of 
his  household,  and  Lance,  as  a  matter  of  course,  was 
going  with  him. 

Dennis  De  Vine  had  also  looked  forward  to  the 
festival  as  the  excuse  for  a  great  holiday.  It  had  been 
his  intention  to  take  Aunty  Losh,  Adela,  and  Sylv  in  his 


CS  TRUE. 

dug-out  sloop,  and  sail  a  hundred  miles  up  the  Neuse 
Iliver,  to  the  scene  of  the  merrymaking.  But  the 
quarrel  with  Sylv,  which  had  come  so  near  to  a  fatal  re- 
sult, threw  a  cloud  over  him,  and  for  a  time  threatened 
to  mar  the  pleasure  of  this  prospect. 

The  day  after  that  incident  Dennis  disappeared  from 
the  cabin,  and  was  not  seen  there  again  until  evening. 
He  was  supposed  to  be  out  fishing,  and  did,  I  believe, 
actually  pass  his  time  in  sailing  outside  the  network  of 
sandy  spits  and  islands,  as  if  engaged  in  trolling  for  blue- 
fish  ;  but  when  he  returned  he  brought  but  few  trophies 
of  the  hook.  I  know  that  during  the  afternoon  he 
beached  his  boat  on  the  inner  shore  beyond  Ocracoke, 
and  took  to  wandering  disconsolately  along  the  dreary 
dunes.  The  hour  of  sunset  approached  as  he  found 
himself  near  the  old  graveyard  of  Portsmouth.  It  was  a 
rough,  melancholy,  neglected  spot  ;  and  the  thick-sown 
graves  lay  so  near  the  racing  tides  that  the  land  which 
held  the  dead  was  gradually  crumbling  away,  and 
delivered  to  the  sea,  from  time  to  time,  its  mournful 
burden  of  forgotten  humanity. 

Dennis,  while  trudging  unconsciously  hither,  had 
been  lost  in  mingled  reflections  upon  the  quarrel— alter- 
nately grateful  for  his  escape  from  crime,  and  remorseful 
fur  the  passionate  temper  which  had  almost  swept  him 
on,  without  premeditation,  to  the  consummation  of  a 
terrible  deed.  All  at  once  he  became  aware  that  he 
stood  at  the  edge  of  this  grim  and  pathetic  graveyard. 
A  shudder  ran  through  him. 

"To  think,"  he  muttered,  "that  I  was  nigh  on  to 
bringin'  Sylv  to  such  a  place  as  this  !  And  then  how 
would  I  ha'  felt  ?  Oh,  God,  forgive  me  !  We  die  soon 
enough,  the  best  way  we  can  fix  it.  Why  should  one 
man  want  to  kill  another  ?" 


Tin:    RACES,    AND   THE   MOTTO.  _  CO 

Near  the  water  the  ground  was  ragged  and  worn 
away,  where  the  chafing  of  the  tides  had  carried  it  off 
piecemeal  ;  and  from  the  gaunt  earth  several  coffins  pro- 
jected, which  were  soon  to  fall  a  prey  to  the  waves. 
Dennis  gazed  upon  them  with  a  fascinated  horror,  and  as 
lie  looked  it  seemed  to  him  that  in  the  mouldering  recep- 
tacle of  death  nearest  to  him  he  could  see  something 
bright  shining  through  the  ere  rices  of  the  boarding  that, 
warped  by  long  inhumation,  leaned  partly  open.  For  a 
moment  the  wild  fancy  presented  itself  that  impossible 
wealth,  in  the  shape  of  sparkling  jewels,  had  been  buried 
with  the  unknown  inmate  of  the  coffin.  lie  bent  a  little 
closer  to  examine  it.  At  that  instant  the  bank  beneath 
crumbled  slightly — some  of  the  sandy  soil  slipped  into 
the  water — and  a  fresh  breeze,  sweeping  in  from  the  sea, 
shook  the  side-plank  so  that  it  fell,  disclosing  the  dusty 
and  shapeless  contents.  Sweat  started  to  the  brow  of 
Dennis  ;  he  beheld  there  a  row  of  toads,  sitting  inert 
and  hideous  inside  the  coffin,  with  glittering  eyes. 

No  more  awful  example  of  the  ghastiliness  of  burial 
could  have  confronted  him  than  that.  The  sight  re- 
doubled the  agony  he  was  already  suffering,  and  with  a 
staggering  motion  he  turned  to  retrace  his  steps. 

Dennis  was  not  a  reflective  man  ;  perhaps  he  had 
never  before  meditated  very  deeply  on  the  transi  tori  ness 
of  life,  and  the  thousand  ways  in  which  oblivion  is  for- 
ever clutching  at  us,  obliterating  the  few  poor  traces  of 
our  existence  that  are  left  when  we  depart  from  this 
world.  But  the  conjunction  of  circumstances,  bringing 
such  a  sight  to  him  at  that  precise  moment,  wrought, 
powerfully  on  his  mind.  "  If  I  could  only  change  !"  he 
eaid  to  himself,  as  he  plodded  back  to  his  boat.  "  If  I 
could  only  be  better  !" 

Yet  he  was  by  no  means  certain  that  he  could  improve. 


70  TRUE. 

Throughout  the  next  few  days  he  devoted  himself  to 
Sylv  with  a  careful  tenderness  that  was  almost  pathetic. 
He  offered  to  do  him  little  services  ;  he  tried  to  exhibit 
an  interest  in  Sylv's  reading  ;  he  was  anxious  not  to  have 
Sylv  expose  himself  to  any  undue  fatigues  or  risks  or 
dangers.  He  would  not  let  him  go  out  in  the  boat. 

"  'Pears  like  you  thought  you  was  married  a' ready 
and  Sylv  was  your  baby,"  Aunty  Losh  observed,  with 
kindly  sarcasm,  noticing  his  unwonted  solicitude.  "  But 
I'm  glad  on't,  Dennie.  Bern'  as  you're  older'n  him,  it 
ar'  right,  and  I'm  glad  on't."  And  thereupon  she  again 
betook  herself  to  "paddling"  snuff,  with  a  pleasant 
sense  of  duty  performed. 

Sylv  understood  his  brother's  contrition,  bi?t  did  his 
best  to  banish  all  remembrance  of  their  saturnine  contro- 
versy in  the  wood.  "  How 'bout  Beaufort,"  he  asked, 
as  the  time  approached  for  making  the  final  arrange- 
ments ;  ' '  have  you  seen  Deely  2' ' 

Now,  the  truth  was  that  neither  of  them  had  seen 
Deely  for  several  days  ;  she  had  stayed  at  home 
punctiliously,  dreading  to  meet  Sylvester  by  chance,  and 
dreading  still  more  to  see  Dennis,  after  what  she  had 
overheard. 

"No,"  said  Dennis  ;  "  but  I  will  see  her.' ' 

Accordingly  he  went  over  to  the  so-called  Doctor 
Reefe's  house  at  Hunting  Quarters,  the  next  day. 
Adela  was  at  home,  but  she  came  out  of  the  house  to 
receive  him,  and  did  not  ask  him  in. 

"  I'm  not  going,"  she  said  at  first,  facing  him  with  a 
reserved  majesty  like  that  of  some  wild  princess. 

"  Why  not  ?"  he  inquired,  his  eyes  still  downcast. 

"  Because  I'm  afraid.     Something  might  happen." 

Dennis  shot  a  swift,  indignant  glance  at  her.  "  What'd. 
happen,  I'd  like  to  know  2' ' 


THE    RACES,    AND   THE   MOTTO.  71 

"I  didn't  mean  anything,"  said  Adela.  "I'm  not 
going;  that's  what."  She  saw  that  she  had  been  too 
abrupt,  and  she  was  determined  not  to  disclose  that  she 
knew  anything  of  the  altercation. 

But  Dennis  besought  her  in  every  way  lie  could  think 
of.  "I  won't  talk  to  you  so,  like  I  did  last  time," 
he  said,  penitently.  "I  know  I'm  a  rough  kind  o' 
fellow.  I  ain't  got  no  temper — or  mebbe  I  got  too 
much.  But  I'm  sorry  for  what  I  done,  and  sorry  for 
mor'n  what  you  know,  Deely.  I'll  promise  to  be  good 
if  ye'llgo." 

And  so,  at  last,  she  consented. 

Old  Reefe  regarded  the  races  as  a  matter  of  business, 
being  in  the  habit,  I  regret  to  say,  of  selling  consider- 
able quantities  of  his  untrustworthy  herb-medicines  on 
these  occasions.  lie  was  peculiar  and  of  a  solitary  turn, 
and  had  his  own  way  of  going  to  !Newbern.  He  started 
three  or  four  days  in  advance,  on  foot,  and  did  more  or 
less  peddling  in  the  sparsely  settled  country  through 
which  he  passed.  This  arrangement  was  also  quite  satis- 
factory to  Dennis.  His  sloop  was  made  out  of  two  large 
hollowed  cypress  logs — as  is  the  custom  in  those  lati- 
tudes, where  the  hard  knocks  that  boats  must  endure  on 
the  shoals  soon  wear  out  any  lighter  craft — and  the  ac- 
commodations aboard  were  limited  ;  there  was  really  no 
room  for  "  ole  man  Reefe." 

To  people  leading  so  plain  and  secluded  a  life  as  that 
of  the  shore,  you  may  imagine  what  a  change  and  what 
an  outlook  of  wild  excitement  this  extensive  trip  to 
Hewbern  afforded.  Adela  was  always  interested  in  the 
boat ;  Dennis  had  given  her  lessons  in  sailing,  and  often 
let  her  take  the  helrn.  Once  on  board,  her  old  delight 
returned  ;  doubts  and  troubles  vanished,  and  it  was  soon 
a  gay  party  that  sat  beneath  the  sail,  now  briskly  speed- 


72  TRUE. 

ing  midway  up  the  five-mile-wide  current,  now  tacking 
from  side  to  side. 

An  informal,  impromptu  sort  of  fair  clustered  around 
the  races,  embracing  booths  and  stalls  for  the  sale  of 
various  trumpery,  with  perhaps  a  circus  in  a  tent,  or 
merely  a  nomadic  little  "show,"  consisting  chiefly  of 
over-colored  pictures,  that  hung  upon  the  canvas  wall, 
napping  and  trembling  in  the  breeze  as  if  frightened  by 
their  own  mendacity.  Then,  as  I  have  said,  "  Doctor" 
lieefe  went  about,  lean  and  sombre,  with  grayish  hair 
straggling  round  his  dark  cheeks,  to  hawk  his  "great 
Indian  remedies,"  although  it  did  not  appear  that  there 
were  any  Indians  to  be  remedied.  Adela,  who  possessed 
a  knack  for  making  ornamental  baskets  and  bead-work, 
likewise  availed  herself  of  the  brief  season  to  sell  some  of 
her  pretty  wares,  in  a  modest  and  desultory  way. 

Lance,  Jessie,  and  Colonel  Floyd  occupied  themselves 
at  first  with  looking  at  the  trotters  and  watching  the' 
false  starts,  the  true  starts,  the  judges  incessantly  ringing 
a  bell  in  the  most  confusing  way,  and  the  fine,  steady 
rush  of  the  horses  around  the  track,  with  small  sulkies 
and  eager  drivers  apparently  glued  to  their  haunches. 
But  after  a  time,  when  a  number  of  heats  had  been  run, 
there  was  an  intermission,  and  Lance  and  Jessie  began 
to  stroll  about  in  the  crowd,  examining  the  limited 
means  of  entertainment,  while  the  colonel  talked  with 
some  of  his  cronies  among  the  horse-owners.  Blacks  and 
whites  were  slowly  sauntering  from  point  to  point, 
chiefly  in  separate  groups,  and  our  friends  kept  on  the 
edge  of  the  white  crowd.  There  was  a  fresh  odor  of 
bruised  grass  in  the  air,  from  the  treading  of  many  feet, 
and  the  beating  of  a  drum  sounded  from  the  small  tent 
where  an  outrageous  effigy  of  the  Great  Giant  of  Tartary 
alternately  swelled  out  threateningly  and  crumpled  itself 


THE  KACES,    AND  THE   MOTTO.  73 

up  ineffectually,  as  the  gusts  of  wind  came  and  went  that 
fluttered  the  streamers  above  him. 

Here  and  there  a  game  of  some  sort  was  in  progress, 
though  without  enlisting  much  energy  from  the  partici- 
pants, except  in  one  instance.  The  exception  was  due 
to  a  newly  introduced  sport— that  of  "  egg-jumping"- 
the  point  of  which  was  that  each  contestant,  in  trying  to 
make  the  longest  jump,  should  carry  an  egg  in  either 
hand.  The  natural  tendency  to  close  the  fingers  at  the 
moment  of  leaping  was  relied  on  to  make  jumpers  crush 
the  eggs  ;  and  most  of  them  came  to  grief  in  that  way, 
for  a  failure  to  bring  either  egg  intact  through  the  ex- 
periment ruined  the  competitor's  chance  for  that  time. 
The  enterprising  individual  who  presided  over  this  game 
had  put  up  several  cheap  prizes,  among  which  was  a 
brilliant  neckerchief  for  feminine  adornment,  and  charged 
each  person  who  entered  the  sum  of  five  cents,  the  low 
rate  being  due  to  the  fact  that  the  eggs  consumed  were 
no  longer  marketable  ;  and  their  condition  was  supposed 
to  increase  the  dismay  of  the  defeated. 

The  men  toed  a  chalk  line  on  the  grass,  and  jumped 
from  it  successively.  The  line  never  lacked  for  the 
boots  of  some  ambitious  contestant  ready  to  make  his 
attempt;  and  as  Lance  reached  the  spot  with  his  com- 
panion, the  stalwart  form  of  Dennis  De  Yine  was  dis- 
covered there,  gathering  itself  together  for  a  saltatory 
effort.  He  had  set  his  heart  on  winning  the  necker- 
chief for  Adela ;  but,  with  the  eyes  of  the  spectators 
upon  him,  he  was  conscious  of  being  in  an  absurd  posi- 
tion, and  his  greatest  difficulty  seemed  to  be  to  suppress 
a  smile  that  was  broadening  on  his  lips.  Twice  or  thrice 
he  seemed  on  the  point  of  jumping,  but  each  time  he 
paused  to  give  way  to  a  bashful  guffaw  and  stamp  his 
boots  on  the  ground  with  humorous  emphasis.  Finally 


74  TRUE. 

he  nerved  liimself,  and,  readjusting  the  fragile  burdens 
in  either  fist,  made  his  spring.  For  an  instant  the  sun- 
light showed  brightly  on  his  ruddy  cheeks  and  red  hair 
as  he  flew  from  the  line,  rising  a  few  inches  from  the 
sod.  Then  he  landed  suddenly,  several  feet  away, 
slipped,  and  went  down,  with  the  yelks  gushing  in 
yellow  spurts  from  the  shells.  A  roar  of  laughter  rose 
from  the  crowd. 

Dennis  looked  a  little  angry,  but  hastened  to  rub  oil 
the  egg-yelks  on  the  grass,  and,  producing  another  five 
cents,  took  his  stand  at  the  line  again.  He  waited  for 
one  or  two  companions  in  misfortune  to  repeat  his 
failure  ;  but  there  was  no  awkward  merriment  about 
him,  this  time.  He  was  too  intent  upon  success.  Hold- 
ing the  new  eggs  firmly  and  lightly,  swinging  his  arms 
and  then  keeping  them  well  up  as  he  started,  he  made 
his  second  energetic  venture  ;  and  when  his  feet  struck 
the  turf  he  raised  the  two  small  white  objects  triumph- 
antly. They  were  unbroken. 

He  was  rewarded  with  plaudits  and  shouts  of  approba- 
tion—the length  of  the  jump  was  respectable— and,  with 
a  reluctant  flourish  of  the  kerchief,  the  proprietor  of  the 
game  awarded  him  that  prize. 

"  Good  for  you,  Dennie  !"  cried  a  deep  and  rather 
musical  voice  near  Lance. 

He  turned,  and  recognized  Sylv.  "  Why,  how  are 
you  ?"  he  asked,  cordially. 

He  would  have  stepped  toward  him  and  shaken  hands, 
but  Sylv  merely  took  off  his  hat,  bowing,  and  gave  no  sign 
of  expecting  further  advances.  The  truth  was,  he  was 
afraid  of  Jessie,  whose  notions  of  caste  made  her  think  it 
proper  to  keep  these  folk  at  a  distance  in  public  places. 

"  Come,"  she  said  to  her  lover  ;  "let  us  be  going  back 
to  the  racecourse." 


THE    RACES,    AND   THE   MOTTO.  75 

"  1  wanted  to  speak  a  moment  with  De  Vine,"  Lance 
objected,  mildly.  "  1  intend  to  make  him  part  of  my 
schemes  ;  don't  you  see  ?" 

"  Oh,  well,  not  here  ;  not  now,"  said  Jessie.  "  He's 
not  your  friend,  if  he  is  to  be  your  workman.  And  this 
is  hardly  the  place." 

"  Very  well,"  he  assented,  though  not  wholly  pleased. 

But  by  this  time  Dennis  had  elbowed  his  way  through 
the  press  of  onlookers,  bearing  his  prize  like  a  victorious 
banner,  and  Jessie  all  at  once  became  interested  in  seeing 
what  he  would  do  with  it.  "  Look  !"  she  exclaimed, 
abandoning  her  position  of  careful  reserve.  "  He's 
going  to  give  it  to  his  sweetheart — Adela  Reefe.  Don't 
you  remember  my  telling  you  about  her  ?  She's  really 
a  handsome  girl — very  handsome.  And  that  reminds  rno 
— 1  must  buy  one  of  her  baskets  or  boxes.  She'd  be 
dreadfully  disappointed  if  1  didn't." 

The  result  was  that  Jessie  impulsively  carried  him  off 
in  pursuit  of  Dennis,  whom  Sylv  also  followed. 

Old  Reefe,  mounted  on  a  box '  under  the  spreading 
branches  of  a  tree,  not  far  a\vay,  was  dispensing  his 
medicaments  with  an  impressively  stoical  air,  now  and 
then  addressing  the  bystanders  in  a  curiously  grave 
manner,  quite  at  variance  with  the  usual  volubility  of 
nostrum-dealers  ;  and  near  him  Adela  was  moving  to  and 
fro  with  a  bundle  of  her  handiwork  on  her  arm,  waiting 
for  purchasers,  but  never  soliciting  them.  Aunty  Losh 
smoked  her  pipe  serenely  in  the  background,  beneath 
the  shade  of  the  trees. 

Lance  and  Jessie  witnessed  the  pleasant  little  scene  that 
was  enacted,  of  Dennie's  presenting  the  scarf  loj'ally  to 
his  lady-love,  and  her  unfeigned  satisfaction  in  receiving 
it,  while  Sylv  stood  apart  for  a  moment,  and  then  came 
up  to  take  a  share  in  describing  his  brother's  achieve- 


76  TRUE. 

ment.  They  all  three  broke  into  smiles  and  laughter 
at  the  recital. 

But  Lance  stood  motionless  with  astonishment.  "  Is 
that  Adela  Reefe  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Certainly,"  Jessie  assured  him.  "Why  shouldn't 
she  be  ?" 

Lance  was  too  much  surprised  to  answer.  It  appeared 
to  him  certain,  at  the  very  first  glance,  that  this  was  the 
same  young  woman  who  had  of  late  been  so  often  in  his 
mind  ;  and,  as  she  looked  so  much  like  his  recollection 
of  her,  the  resemblance  to  Jessie  whicli  he  had  before 
imagined  also  struck  him  now.  But  he  could  not  as  yet 
be  quite  sure  that  it  existed.  lie  waited  until  they  carno 
nearer  before  making  up  his  mind  on  this  point. 

Meanwhile  Jessie  pressed  forward,  and  he  with  her. 
She  greeted  Adela  with  smiles,  nodded  with  the  affability 
of  a  natural  superior  to  Dennis,  and  congratulated  them 
both  on  his  success,  in  a  way  that  made  them  feel  that 
she  had  bestowed  a  favor.  She  then  began  to  examine 
Adela's  stock-in-trade,  holding  up  the  different  articles 
that  took  her  fancy,  turning  them  this  way  and  that,  and 
bringing  out  their  meek  decorative  value  by  the  sunni- 
ness  of  the  light  from  her  own  eyes.  "  This  is  pretty. 
Thatfs  remarkably  good  !"  she  said,  like  a  connoisseur 
inspecting  rare  bric-a-brac.  "  Oh,  I  must  have  this  box 
of  bark  and  moss  !  And  that  belt — just  see  how  quaint 
it  is,  Ned." 

Lance  quietly  received  each  piece  that  she  selected, 
and  kept  every  one  ;  so  that  when  she  had  done  choos- 
ing and  he  had  paid  for  them,  Adela  conceived  that  it 
would  be  unnecessary  to  sell  anything  more  that  day. 

The  belt  which  Lance  was  called  upon  to  admire 
especially  was  made  of  simple  undressed  leather,  but  ifc 
was  embroidered  with  a  design  in  varicolored  beads,  GO 


THE    KACES,    AND   THE   MOTTO.  77 

original  and  ingenious  that  the  thing  became  positively 
charming.  Through  the  pattern  there  ran  a  series  of 
angular  lines  that  suggested  an  inscription  ;  as  this, 
however,  seemed  to  be  only  a  whim  of  the  designer,  and 
was  illegible,  it  fell  into  the  general  plan  of  ornament, 
with  an  effect  like  that  of  hieroglyphics.  Miss  Jessie's 
cavalier  glanced  at  it  hastily,  as  they  moved  away,  and 
was  decidedly  pleased  with  the  acquisition.  But  he  had 
no  time  to  consider  it,  and  he  was,  moreover,  exceed- 
ingly occupied  with  the  result  of  the  closer  scrutiny  he 
had  given  to  Adela. 

It  had  confirmed  his  idea  that  there  was  a  degree  of 
likeness  in  her  features  to  Jessie's  ;  and  the  fact  so  im- 
pressed him,  that  lie  forgot  to  seize  the  chance  which 
had  offered  of  a  chat  with  Sylv.  He  said  to  the  young 
man  only  :  "I  want  to  see  you  soon,  De  Vine,  about  an 
important  matter.  Come  up  to  the  manor  when  you 
can." 

It  was  impossible  to  keep  the  subject  out  of  his  mind, 
as  he  returned  to  the  racecourse  with  Jessie  ;  and  it  re- 
curred again  and  again  that  night,  which  he  passed,  with 
the  Floyds,  in  the  house  of  friends  at  Newbern.  A 
whole  rout  of  bewildering  surmises  and  baffled  guesses 
beset  him.  If  Adela  really  looked  at  all  like  his  Jessie, 
why,  he  asked  himself,  had  not  others  discovered  it  ? 
Why  hadn't  Jessie  herself  remarked  the  fact  ?  But 
then,  on  the  other  hand,  the  thing  was  so  unlikely,  and 
the  positions  of  the  two  women  were  so  far  apart,  that 
no  one  here  would  be  apt  to  notice  or  for  a  moment 
consider  such  a  supposition. 

It  was  not  until  they  were  once  more  at  Fairleigh  Park 
that  he  looked  a  second  time  at  the  belt  which  they  had 
bought  from  Adela.  Sitting  with  Jessie  and  her  father, 
in  the  evening,  when  they  were  talking  over  their  experi- 


78  TKUE. 

ence  on  the  rail  and  at  the  races,  he  glanced  over  the 
various  purchases  which  had  been  made,  most  of  them 
of  a  more  ambitious  sort  ;  but  when  they  came  to  the 
belt,  lie  studied  it  with  a  good  deal  of  care,  feeling  an 
interest  both  in  its  novelty  and  in  the  maker. 

Did  he  dream,  or  was  this  another  illusion  ?  The 
angular  pattern  in  the  midst  of  the  design,  which  he  had 
before  noticed,  unexpectedly  assumed  a  meaning  to  his 
eyes.  The  more  sharply  he  scanned  it,  the  less  he 
doubted  his  senses,  for  the  beaded  lines  took  with  in- 
creasing clearness  the  forms  of  letters  ;  and,  on  tracing 
these  out,  one  after  another,  he  saw  that  they  composed 
a  series  of  words  arranged  in  coherent  order- — briefly,  a 
motto. 

I  am  not  afraid  of  being  old-fashioned.  Therefore  I 
shall  ask  my  reader  if  he  ever  came  upon  any  sight — 
ever  was  smitten,  either  in  thought  or  in  reading,  by  any 
feeling  that  set  a  thousand  flame-points  tingling  around 
his  brain,  and  sent  irresistible  waves  of  cold,  nervous 
thrill  down  his  spine.  By  this  I  do  not  mean  a  thrill  of 
horror,  but  of  supreme  and  overwhelming  emotion  that 
instantly  suggests  your  being  in  the  grasp  of  some  more 
than  human  power — the  power  of  endless,  ideal  forces, 
directed  upon  the  human  organism  from  without,  as  the 
harper's  hand  is  directed  with  omnipotent  s*veep  upon 
the  strings  of  his  instrument.  If  my  reader,  as  aforesaid, 
has  had  such  experience,  he  will  understand  the  strange, 
exalting  shock  of  wonder  and  awe  that  vibrated  through 
Lance's  system  when  he  discerned  in  the  wording  on 
the  belt  : 

"  I  journey  whither  I  cannot  see. 
'Tis  strange  that  I  can  merry  be." 

The  old  motto  of  Wharton  Hall,  in  Surrey,  England, 
was  perfectly  familiar  to  him,  because  he  had  visited  the 


THE    RACES,    AND   THE   MOTTO.  79 

place  with  his  father,  on  one  of  their  journeys  abroad, 
and  having  noted  down  the  lines,  which  still  remained 
engraven  on  the  wall,  he  had  committed  them  to 
memory.  And  here  was  the  last  half  of  that  quatrain, 
obscurely  inscribed — as  if  the  embroiderer  had  hardly 
understood  their  full  significance — on  the  handiwork  of 
Adela  Reefe.  Could  there  be  anything  more  astounding 
than  this  ?  Did  Adela  know  the  origin  of  those  verses  ? 
And  if  she  did,  what  momentous  secret  did  the  fact  in- 
volve ? 

The  next  moment,  naturally  enough,  a  simple  and 
matter-of-fact  solution  occurred  to  him.  Adela  might 
have  learned  the  motto  from  the  Floyds. 

"  Do  you  see  how  it  reads  ?"  he  asked,  holding  up  the 
bead-work  so  that  Jessie  could  survey  the  whole  pattern. 

"  JSTo,"  said  she. 

He  pointed  out  the  letters  with  his  finger,  and  gradu- 
ally spelled  the  inscription  through,  until  she  caught  its 
purport. 

"How  very  odd  !"  she  exclaimed,  at  the  end.  Bat 
the  look  with  which  she  accompanied  the  remark 
showed  that  the  verses  touched  no  chord  of  memory  or 
knowledge  in  her  mind.  "  Where  do  you  suppose  the 
girl  got  the  idea  ?"  she  concluded. 

The  quivering  sensation  which  Lance  had  felt,  at  first, 
renewed  itself.  He  laid  the  belt  down,  and,  as  he  did 
so,  his  hands  trembled. 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  this  motto  ?"  he  said, 
appealing  to  the  colonel. 

But  the  colonel  was  also  a  blank  on  the  subject. 

Lance,  therefore,  was  reduced  to  telling  them  where 
he  had  seen  it.  In  doing  this  he  was  quite  methodical, 
but  he  could  not  conceal  the  peculiar  agitation  which 
affected  him. 


80  TRUE. 

Both  the  colonel  and  his  daughter  were  much  im- 
pressed by  his  strange  disclosure,  and  were  utterly  at  a 
loss  to  account  for  the  reappearance  of  the  traditional 
rhymes  in  a  way  so  unlocked  for  ;  but  they  did  not  take 
the  mystery  so  much  to  heart  as  Lance  did. 

"It's  not  only  extraordinary,  but  incredible,"  he 
affirmed.  "  I  must  see  that  girl  and  ask  her  about  it." 


CHAPTER  YIII. 

ADELA'S  LEGEND. 

JESSIE  was  not  much  inclined  to  give  heed  to  her 
lover's  curiosity  about  Adela,  and  his  desire  to  consult 
her  respecting  the  enigma  which  had  so  piqued  him. 
But  he  continued  so  persistent,  that  she  was  obliged  to 
humor  him  ;  and  before  a  week  passed  he  persuaded 
her  to  ride  with  him  to  Hunting  Quarters  and  search  out 
the  mysterious  maiden. 

Both  Adela  and  her  father  were  at  home,  the  latter 
being  engaged,  when  the  visitors  entered,  with  some 
jugs  and  bottles,  in  which  were  stored  Iris  marvellous 
decoctions.  Promptly  desisting  from  his  work,  he  in- 
vited the  young  pair  to  seat  themselves  ;  and  Adela,  who 
was  just  then  stitching  at  some  of  her  semi-savage  con- 
trivances, also  rose  to  offer  welcome. 

The  interior  of  the  house  at  Hunting  Quarters  was 
rude  enough.  The  room  in  which  these  four  people  met 
was  badly  lighted  from  two  small  windows  facing  toward 
Core  Sound,  one  of  which  was  open,  so  that  the  dull 


ADELA-'S   LEGEND.  81 

booming  of  the  sea  continually  entered,  supplying  an 
uncouth  refrain  to  their  conversation.  On  one  side  was 
a  large  hearth  ;  on  the  other,  a  door  leading  to  the  re- 
maining part  of  the  house — what  there  was  of  it.  The 
furniture  was  scanty  :  a  table,  a  bench,  a  couple  of 
stools,  some  shelves  holding  bottles,  boxes,  a  few  books 
and  various  cooking  utensils  as  well  as  dishes.  The  lack 
of  sufficient  seats  for  guests  was  supplied  by  several 
blocks  of  wood  sawed  off  from  the  stumps  of  trees  ;  and 
to  these  primitive  perches  old  Reefe  and  his  daughter 
resorted,  in  order  to  make  room  for  their  callers. 

Jessie  presented  an  excuse  for  coming,  to  the  effect 
that  Aunt  Sally  was  desirous  of  having  a  bottle  of  Doctor 
Reefe's  famous  specific  ;  but,  when  this  business  was 
over,  she  turned  the  conversation  to  Adela's  work. 

"  Mr.  Lance  is  ever  so  much  pleased  with  those  things 
you  let  us  have,"  she  said.  "  And  1  can  assure  you  he 
takes  the  greatest  interest  in  some  of  them.  I  think  he 
wants  to  ask  you  how  you  sew  the  beads,  and  how  you 
make  those  moss-boxes." 

Adela  laughed.  "I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "I've 
done  it  so  long — ever  since  I  was  a  tiny  girl.  Ain't  it 
BO,  dad  ?" 

Old  Eeefe,  thus  referred  to,  gave  a  nod,  without  say- 
ing anything.  But  Lance  took  advantage  of  the  cue 
Jessie  had  given  him  to  go  into  particulars  with  Adela 
as  to  her  mode  of  manufacture  and  the  several  beauties 
of  the  articles  she  produced.  Finally  he  came  around  to 
the  subject  of  the  belt  and  the  pattern  woven  upon  it. 
"  Have  you  got  any  more  of  those  ?"  he  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Adela  ;  "  it  was  the  last — the  one  you 
took.  I  can  make  another,  if  you  want.  I've  got  it  all 
in  my  head." 

"  And  the  rhyme,  too  ?"  Lance  inquired,  eagerly. 


82  TBUE. 

"What?  What's  that?"  Adela  appeared  a  little 
dazed. 

"  I  mean  the  words,"  he  explained.  "  Didn't  you 
know  there  were  words  in  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  part  along  the  middle,"  said  the  girl.  Her 
gray  eyes  took  on  a  far-off,  dreamy  expression.  "  Yes  ; 
they  are  words." 

Lance  controlled  his  excitement,  which  still  seemed  to 
him  causeless  and  rather  annoying.  "  1  wonder  if  I  read 
them  right  ?"  he  hazarded.  "  Would  you  like  to  see  how 
they  looked  to  me  ?" 

He  drew  out  a  bit  of  paper  on  which  he  had  written 
them,  and  showed  it  to  her.  The  action  seemed  to  rouse 
her  taciturn  father  slightly.  But  Adela  gazed  at  the 
'paper,  and  said,  with  an  incredulous  laugh  :  "  Oh,  no, 
they  don't  look  like  that  !" 

"  Can  you  read  ?"  Lance  demanded. 

"  Yes,  a  little  ;  but  they  don't  look  like  that." 

"Well,  at  any  rate,  they  mean  something,"  he  re- 
torted ;  "  and  this  is  what  they  mean." 

He  read  the  rhyme  aloud,  and  their  eyes  met. 

"Yes,"  she  admitted;  "I  suppose  that's  how  it 
goes  ;"  and  she  crooned  the  distich  over,  as  if  singing  to 
herself. 

"  But  what  I  want  to  know,"  he  continued,  "  is  how 
you  got  it.  How  did  you  come  to  know  it  ?" 

Adela  remained  silent  ;  but  her  father  spoke,  after  a 
pause,  in  a  serious,  hollow  voice.  "  It  is  very  old,"  he 
said.  "It  is  a  great  charm.  We  have  always  known 
it," 

"  How  do  you  mean — '  yon  '  ?" 

"  Our  people,"  replied  the  old  man,  gravely. 

"  But  not  all  the  people  around  here,"  Lance  inter- 
'posed.  "  Miss  Jessie  doesn't  know  it." 


ADELA'S  LEGEND.  83 

Reefe  made  a  gesture  of  dissent  that  approached  the 
disdainful.  "No,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  sort  of 
gutteral  grunt  after  the  word  ;  "  she  don't  know — of 
course." 

"  But  ./have  known  it  well,"  Lance  said.  "  I  saw  it 
years  ago  in  England." 

"You?"  cried  Reefe,  with  the  first  indication  of 
marked  feeling  that  he  had  betrayed  during  the  inter- 
view. "  Who  are  you,  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  a  humble  citizen  named  Lance  !"  said  the 
young  man,  quietly.  "  But  I  know  that  motto  ;  it  has 
been  in  our  family  for  a  long  time. ' ' 

The  old  man  seemed  to  withdraw  suddenly  into  him- 
self. "It  is  a  great  charm,"  he  repeated,  slowly. 
"  Wonderful  !  It  keeps  off  harm  and  trouble.  My 
father  gave  it  to  me." 

"  Where  did  he  find  it  ?"  Lance  inquired. 

"  He  found  it  far,  far  back,"  Reefe  responded.  But 
his  tone  was  so  vague,  and  his  expression  grew  so  intro- 
spective, that  Lance  half  imagined  that  the  old  face  was 
growing  still  older — immeasurably  more  ancient — as  he 
gazed  upon  it,  and  that  the  speaker  was  removing  him- 
self, by  some  occult  spell,  into  a  distant  past. 

"  You  spoke  of  our  people,"  he  said,  at  length. 
"  Did  you  mean  your  family  ?" 

"  Where  we  came  from.  Our  people — over  there," 
the  herb  doctor  answered,  pointing  uncertainly  to  his 
right,  in  a  direction,  Lance  noticed,  which  signified 
farther  to  the  North,  up  the  Sound. 

"  Yes,  they  always  had  that  charm,"  Adela  now 
said.  "I  don't  know  why.  "Who  can  tell?  It  all 
comes  from  the  old  story  of  the  Indians  and  the  white 
folks." 

Her  father  appeared  to  have  lapsed  into  a  semi -trance, 


84  TRUE. 

or  to  be  dozing  ;  but  Adela  looked  aroused  ;  her  in- 
terest was  kindled,  and  slie  was  evidently  prepared  to  be 
communicative. 

"Oh,  is  there  a  story?"  Jessie  cried.  "Why,  I 
never  heard  it.  Do  tell  us,  Deely  !" 

Some  judicious  urging  was  required  before  the  girl 
would  speak  ;  but,  in  the  end,  the  inquisitive  lovers 
succeeded  in  persuading  her,  and  at  last  she  narrated  to 
them  the  legend  of  her  "people,"  the  substance  of 
which  shall  here  be  given,  though  not  precisely  in  her 
language. 

A  great  many  years  ago — as  many  as  there  are  buds 
on  a  tree— an  old  man  dwelt  in  a  wigwam  beside  the 
sweet  waters,  with  his  only  child,  a  beautiful  girl.  They 
had  come  out  of  the  sea  together,  no  man  could 
remember  when  ;  but,  while  the  other  people  in  the 
wigwams  were  dark  and  red,  these  were  almost  white. 
They  had  been  so  long  in  the  sea  that  the  foam  of  the 
waves,  touching  their  faces,  hud  made  them  so  white. 
And  the  old  man  loved  his  daughter  very  much.  They 
spoke  a  strange  language  together,  but  when  others 
talked  to  them,  they  replied  in  the  words  that  all  under- 
stood. 

The  old  man  had  no  name  ;  but  his  daughter  was 
called  Ewayea,  which  meant  Lullaby  or  Rest-Song. 
She,  too,  loved  her  father.  They  lived  for  each  other  ; 
and  the  old  man  seemed  always  waiting  for  something, 
uneasy  and  troubled,  but  Ewayed  made  him  rest  and 
sang  him  to  sleep  ;  and  he  slept  much,  and  was  happy. 
But  when  he  was  resting,  Ewayea  would  go  to  the  top 
of  a  little  hill  near  the  wigwam  and  look  far  away,  seem- 
ing also  to  expect  that  some  one  would  come. 

By  and  by  he  came.     His  name  was  Sharp  Arrow  ; 


ADELA'S  LEGEND.  85 

and  lie  came  suddenly,  as  if  some  hand  had  bent  a  bow 
and  sent  him  there  swiftly.  He  loved  Ewayea,  but  at 
first  she  did  not  love  him,  because  she  had  not  waited  for 
him,  and  he  was  a  red  color  ;  and  she  told  him  he  must 
go  and  stay  in  the  sea  and  let  the  foam  dash  over  him,  to 
wash  his  face  and  make  him  white.  Then  he  went  away, 
but  when  he  came  back  his  face  was  still  red  ;  and  the 
Old-man-without-a-name  told  him  that  he  could  not  have 
his  daughter.  But  Sharp  Arrow  stayed  there,  and  he 
flew  in  and  out  of  the  forest,  always  returning  to  the 
maiden  with  love  and  with  some  presents,  or  bringing 
food  to  her  father.  So  at  last  he  struck  her  heart.  It 
bled  for  him,  and  she  longed  to  go  with  him,  to  comfort 
him,  and  be  happy  herself.  But  she  said  :  "  Not  yet,  not 
yet  !  The  Old-man-without-a-name  would  die  if  1  left 
him  now.  I  must  sing  him  to  sleep  many  times  before 
we  go." 

Her  father  saw  that  she  loved  Sharp  Arrow,  and  he 
was  very  jealous.  He  looked  at  the  young  man  with 
enmity,  while  his  face  every  day  grew  harder,  more 
angry,  and  stern,  like  iron.  Often,  too,  he  spoke  to 
Ewayea  in  the  strange  language,  and  pointed  to  the 
East,  as  if  he  would  have  her  go  there.  But  she  only 
shook  her  head  and  sighed  ;  and  sometimes  she  wept. 

The  summer  flew  away,  and  the  birds  flew  away  to 
find  it.  But  those  two  lovers  did  not  know  it  had  gone, 
for  their  hearts  were  warm,  and  thoughts  of  love  grew 
in  them,  like  the  leaves  of  June.  The  days  parted, 
one  from  another,  and  the  seasons  separated  ;  but  for 
Ewayea  and  her  lover  there  was  no  separation.  They 
were  man  and  wife.  Their  two  children  played  in  the 
shade  of  the  forest,  and  Ewayed  sang  lullabies  to  them. 
She  taught  Sharp  Arrow  charms  and  spells.  She  gave 
him  words  out  of  a  book.  Her  children  learned  the 


8G  TRUE. 

strange  language  ;  and  she  looked  at  the  trees,  the  water 
and  the  sky,  and  made  them  talk  as  they  had  not  talked 
till  then.  And  Sharp  Arrow  promised  that  her  spells 
should  never  be  forgotten  among  his  people  if  she 
should  die. 

But  she  never  died. 

The  old  man  slept  a  long  while  ;  then  at  last  he  woke. 
And  when  he  woke  his  face  was  wrinkled  with  anger — 
it  was  hard  like  ice  in  the  sweet  waters — and  when  he 
looked  at  Sharp  Arrow  the  look  seemed  to  freeze  the 
young  man's  face,  so  that  hatred  stiffened  it  into  a  hard- 
ness like  that  of  the  old  man's.  Then,  one  night  in 
winter,  the  old  man  came  to  the  door  of  his  wigwam  and 
stood  there  like  a  spirit.  He  beckoned  to  Sharp  Arrow, 
with  one  finger  upraised  ;  the  moonlight  gleamed  white 
on  his  bitter  white  face,  and  behind  him  there  was  much 
white  snow.  "I  am  dead,"  he  said  to  Sharp  Arrow, 
"  and  you  must  come  with  me  !" 

The  look  of  hate  was  still  in  all  his  features  ;  and  as 
Sharp  Arrow  rose  to  obey  the  command,  his  own  face 
reflected  that  hatred.  The  moonlight  fell  on  him,  too — 
his  face  grew  white  in  it — and  no  one  could  have  told 
which  face  was  most  like  the  other,  then.  But  he  went 
forward,  and  followed  the  old  man. 

Just  at  that  moment  Ewayea  awoke  from  her  sleep 
beside  the  children.  She  stretched  out  her  arms,  tried 
to  catch  her  husband  and  hold  him,  and  saw  him  pass 
away  out  of  her  reach  ;  saw  her  father,  also,  standing 
beyond,  and  beckoning. 

"  Father  !  father  !"  she  cried,  "  why  do  you  leave 
me  ?  Where  are  you  going  ?"  And  to  her  husband  she 
cried  :  "Oh  my  heart,  my  heart,  come  back  to  me  !" 

But  they  gave  no  heed  to  her.  The  old  man  moved 
away,  noiseless,  on  feet  of  air — always  turning  backward 


ADELA'S  LEGEND.  87 

that  icy,  malignant  gaze — and  the  young  man  followed, 
staring  fixedly,  helplessly  upon  him,  with  the  same  dumb 
and  frozen  wrath  upon  his  own  countenance. 

And  so,  as  if  they  had  been  spirits,  they  passed  noise- 
lessly on  and  on,  disappearing  in  the  pale  night  and  the 
snow,  until  all  that  Ewayea  could  see  in  the  quarter 
where  they  had  vanished  was  the  crescent  of  the  sinking 
moon,  like  an  uplifted,  crooked  finger,  beckoning  some 
one  to  follow. 

Ewayea  hoped  that  they  would  come  back.  At  first 
she  wanted  to  go  after  them,  but  when  she  tried  to  move 
she  could  not  :  her  limbs  were  as  weak  and  cold  as  snow, 
and  invisible  arms  were  thrown  around  her,  holding  her 
back.  There  was  nothing  for  her  to  do  but  to  wait. 
AVhen  the  spring  came  again  she  was  always  waiting  and 
watching.  She  stayed  every  day  in  the  same  place, 
looking  out  and  expecting  her  father  and  her  lover  to 
return  ;  but  still  they  came  not.  At  last  she  ceased  to 
speak  :  she  sat  there  motionless  and  voiceless  on  the 
ground,  ever  longing  for  them,  but  afraid  to  stir,  for  fear 
that  they  would  come  back  and  not  find  her.  The  years 
passed,  and  her  children  grew  up  and  departed,  carrying 
with  them  the  spells  and  charms  they  had  learned. 
Yes  ;  they  went  away  and  forgot  their  mother,  who  sat 
there  so  patiently.  But  she  never  once  called  to  them, 
and  only  waited — waited — waited.  They  say  she  is  still 
waiting  in  that  spot.  Summer  after  summer  has 
blossomed  above  her,  and  the  new  leaves  have  started 
and  rustled  with  surprise  as  they  caught  sight  of  her, 
and  have  whispered  one  another  all  day  long  about  the 
strangeness  of  her  silent  presence.  The  slow  autumns, 
one  after  another,  have  wreathed  her  brow  with  weird, 
unnatural  flame  ;  and  the  snows  of  many,  many  winters 
have  crept  around  her  feet  and  drifted  higher  until  they 


88  TRUE. 

almost  buried  her.  But  she  cares  nothing  for  all  these 
changes  ;  does  not  even  tarn  her  head  one  way  or  the 
other,  but  simply  gazes  straight  forward,  expectantly, 
just  as  she  used  to  when  she  went  to  the  top  of  the  little 
hill  looking  eastward.  In  summer,  again,  come  the 
butterflies  and  softly  touch  her  cheek  with  sympathetic 
wings,  as  they  hover  around  ;  the  humming-birds  flash 
and  tremble  near  her  lips,  as  if  expecting  to  find  honey 
there  ;  and  other  birds  look  curiously  with  their  bright 
eyes  into  hers  that  make  no  answer,  while  the  squirrels 
that  chatter  on  the  boughs  near  by,  and  nibble  nuts, 
seem  to  wonder  that  she  does  not  ask  to  share  their 
food.  Still,  she  gives  heed  to  nothing.  She  crouches 
low,  and  her  weary  head  has  drooped  ;  and  the  leaves 
and  dust  have  fallen  thick  upon  her  from  the  under- 
brush that  has  sprung  up  so  rankly  about  her  ;  so  that 
sometimes  you  might  think  she  was  not  a  woman  at 
all,  but  only  a  mound  of  earth.  Yet  she  is  not  dead. 
No  !  The  rains  and  winds,  of  course,  have  worn  away 
the  expression  from  her  face,  until  it  looks  dull  and  sad 
and  lifeless  ;  but,  for  all  that,  she  is  not  dead.  Her 
arms  and  knees  must  have  grown  very  tired  in  the  long 
vigil  she  has  been  keeping,  and  one  would  suppose  they 
would  have  crumbled  into  earth  before  now.  But,  you 
see,  the  wild  vines  have  reached  out  from  the  surround- 
ing trees  to  support  her  ;  and  they  have  encircled  her 
lovingly,  lending  their  strength,  that  she  may  not  fail  of 
her  purpose. 

No  ;  she  is  not  dead.  If  you  could  only  discover  the 
exact  place,  you  would  find  her  still  alive.  But  we  do 
not  know  where  it  is. 

All  four  remained  silent  for  a  few  moments,  after 
Adela  had  finished  her  legend.  Lance  had  listened  with 


ADELA'S  LEGEND.  89 

profound  attention  ;  and  the  shadowy,  fantastic  outlines 
of  the  narrative  were  so  extraordinary,  that  he  was  at 
iirst  too  much  astonished  and  perplexed  to  know  what  to 
think  or  say  about  it.  Clearly  enough,  that  which  the 
ftirl  had  told  might  be  interpreted  as  a  sequel  to  the  his- 
tory of  Gertrude  Wylde,  after  his  ancestor,  Guy  Whar- 
ton,  had  lost  trace  of  her.  It  was  impossible  to  say  just 
what  the  tradition,  now  so  vague  and  impossible,  had 
originally  come  from.  But  the  blending  of  the  white 
and  Indian  races  at  which  it  hinted,  the  looking  east- 
ward, and  the  idea  of  endless  waiting  and  expectancy 
that  ran  all  through  it — did  not  these  things  point 
plainly  toward  the  old  romance  with  which  his  family 
was  connected  ? 

He  did  not  believe  that  his  imagination  alone  was  re- 
sponsible for  these  suggestions,  because  Adela  could  not 
possibly  know  what  he  knew — her  story  was  an  inheri- 
tance so  carefully  guarded,  that  eveii  Jessie  had  not  heard 
it  until  now — and  yet  here  were  these  salient  details  that 
fitted  on  so  naturally  to  his  own  tradition,  and  supple- 
mented it.  Then,  too,  there  was  the  old,  transmitted 
rhyme.  Ah,  that  was  the  clew  !  It  clinched  all  the 
parts  of  his  guess-work  together. 

"  Was  Ewayea  one  of  your  people,  then  ?"  he  asked, 
at  length. 

Adela  looked  at  him  with  surprise,  as  if  he  were  ask- 
ing about  something  which  had  already  been  ex- 
plained. 

"Why,  I  thought  1  said  so,"  she  answered.  "We 
came  from  her." 

Old  Reefe,  roused  perhaps  by  Lance's  voice,  opened 
his  eyes,  and,  hearing  his  daughter's  statement,  nodded  a 
silent  corroboration. 

"  And  that  charm,"  Lance  continued — "  the  one  that 


90  TRUE. 

you  put  on  the  belt — came  from  her,  too  ?  Did  she 
teacli  it  to  her  children  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  that  came  from  her,  too,"  said  Adela. 

Lance  turned  toward  Jessie  in  a  bewildered  way,  gaz- 
ing at  her  as  if  he  expected  her  to  say  or  do  something 
which  would  dispel  the  phantasm  that  was  growing  so 
like  a  reality.  Bat  Jessie  only  reflected  his  amazement 
in  the  glance  which  she  gave  him  in  return. 

"  Isn't  this  very  remarkable  ?"  he  said. 

"  Yery,"  said  Jessie.  "  It's  a  perfect  puzzle.  I 
don't  see  what  to  make  of  it.  But,  Adela,"  she  went 
on,  addressing  the  girl,  "  why  have  you  never  told  me 
this  before  ?" 

Adela  responded  only  with  a  reticent  smile,  and  her 
luminous  gray  eyes  roved  from  Jessie  to  Lance  and  back 
again  without  betraying  what  she  thought. 

"  We  don't  tell  it,"  muttered  her  father.  "  It  was 
our  story — -only  for  us." 

"  But  you  have  told  it  now,"  Jessie  argued.  "  You've 
told  Mr.  Lance,  and  he  is  a  stranger."  Here  Jessie 
blushed,  and  corrected  herself  :  "  Any  way,  he  was  a 
stranger  to  you." 

The  old  man  raised  his  hand  to  point  at  Lance  ;  and 
— by  an  odd  coincidence — his  forefinger,  separated  from 
the  others,  was  curved  with  a  beckoning  emphasis,  as  if 
he  were  himself  the  Old-man -without-a-name  of  the 
legend.  "  He  is  one  of  us,"  he  declared. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that  !"  Lance  exclaimed,  feeling 
that  the  mystery  was  going  almost  too  far.  "  I  don't 
see  it  at  all." 

"  You  knew  the  charm,"  old  Reefe  retorted  ;  and  his 
eyes  twinkled  obscurely,  as  he  fixed  them  upon  his 
visitor. 

"That   doesn't  prove   that  I'm    one   of  you,"  said 


ADELA'S  LEGEND.  91 

Lance,  rising,  for  the  situation  vexed  him  ;  he  was  be- 
coming indignant.  "  It  only  shows  that  my  people  in 
England  knew  the  rhyme  long  before  yours  were  heard 
of." 

Jessie  rose  as  well.  "  I  don't  see  what  your  father  is 
thinking  of,"  she  observed,  frigidly,  to  Adela.  "Mr. 
Lance  belongs  to  a  very  old  family." 

Something  like  a  sarcastic  chuckle  seemed  to  escape 
from  Eeefe's  bearded  lips  ;  but  he  remained  quite  im- 
passive. It  was  impossible  to  tell  whether  or  not  he  had 
made  any  sound. 

"Before  I  go,"  Lance  began,  desperately,  "I  wish 
you'd  tell  me  what  this  legend  means.  Did  you  have 
Indian  ancestors,  as  well  as  English  ?" 

He  fixed  his  gaze  intently  and  strenuously  upon  Adela 
as  he  spoke. 

"  I  told  you  all  1  could,"  Adela  answered,  evasively  ; 
and  began  to  resume  her  work  upon  one  of  the  moss- 
boxes. 

Reefe  looked  at  him,  with  a  trace  of  defiance  now. 
"  We  have  as  good  blood  as  any,"  he  averred.  "  But 
we  ask  you  no  questions,  and  I  don't  see  that  we've  got 
a  call  to  answer  any  more.  If  ye  want  any  yarb  medi- 
cine— "  And  there  he  paused,  indicating  that  he  was 
ready  for  business. 

There  could  not  have  been  a  completer  collapse  of  the 
climax  which  Lance  had  thought  to  force.  He  turned 
away  in  disgust.  "  Come,  Jessie,"  he  said,  "  let  us 
go."  And  Jessie  was  more  than  ready  to  accede. 

But  before  they  went  he  thanked  Adela  for  her 
story,  and  bade  good-by  to  her  and  her  father.  As  he 
faced  them  in  doing  this,  he  noticed  once  more  the  baf- 
fling resemblance  between  Adela  and  Jessie,  which  their 
unlikeness  in  stature  and  general  bearing  rendered  all  the 


92  TRUE. 

more  peculiar  ;  and  the  gray  eyes  of  the  Reefes  troubled 
him  by  their  enigmatic  expression.  The  conviction  was 
strong  in  his  mind,  that  the  cause  of  their  silence  was 
that  they  really  had  nothing  more  definite  to  tell  him 
about  their  ancestry  than  what  they  had  imparted.  Yet 
he  wished  that  they  had  not  stopped  at  this  point.  "Why 
did  they  have  gray  eyes  ?  And  yet,  why  should  they 
not  have  them  ?  Save  for  a  slight  bronze  or  coppery  hue 
in  their  complexions,  they  were  of  the  same  European 
race  that  Lance  and  Jessie  belonged  to. 

Nevertheless,  their  eyes  and  their  strange  legend  pur- 
sued and  haunted  him  long  after  he  and  Jessie  had 
cantered  away  from  the  herb-doctor's  door. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

LANCE   AND    SYLVESTER. 

So  mingled  and  conflicting  were  the  considerations  in 
Lance's  mind,  on  leaving  the  Reefes,  that  he  was  not 
sure  he  would  want  to  see  Adela  again.  But  his  mood 
soon  changed  ;  he  was  not  able  to  evade  the  importance 
which  she  had  assumed  for  him. 

"  I  hope  you  are  satisfied  now,"  said  Jessie,  as  they 
rode  homeward  together. 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  he  answered.  "  1  suspect  myself  of 
being  very  much  ^satisfied." 

Somehow  he  did  not  dare  to  speak  to  her,  as  yet,  of 
the  theory  he  entertained,  that  Adela  was  a  descendant 
of  Gertrude  "Wylde.  And  how  could  he  tell  her  that  he 
thought  they  looked  alike  ? 


LANCE  AND   SYLVESTER.  93 

But  within  a  few  days,  so  incessantly  did  the  notion 
pursue  him,  that  he  was  forced  to  make  a  limited  confes- 
sion of  it.  Jessie  observed  that  he  was  preoccupied 
and  thinking  of  something  which  he  would  not  tell  her. 
"  Do  let  me  know  what  it  is  that  troubles  you,  Ned," 
she  whispered  to  him,  laying  her  arm  gently  around  his 
neck  one  evening  on  the  veranda,  when  she  found  him 
brooding  there  alone. 

Thereupon  he  made  his  disclosure,  and  was  rewarded 
by  a  rather  tumultuous  dialogue,  in  which  Jessie  demon- 
strated clearly  that  she  was  not  pleased  with  the  idea 
which  he  presented. 

"  But  how  can  it  be  any  other  way,  Jessie  ?"  he 
demanded,  reproachfully.  "  Everything  leads  up  to  this 
conclusion  ;  and,  surely,  if  Adela  Reefe  represents  to-day 
the  line  of  that  poor  girl,  Gertrude,  who  would  have 
been  your  own  cousin  if  you  had  been  living  then,  how 
can  we  be  indifferent  to  the  fact  that  the  same  blood  is 
in  your  veins  and  hers  ?" 

"I  won't  have  it  so  !"  Jessie  returned.  "I  don't 
care  if  it  is.  And,  besides,  she  has  Indian  blood  ;  that 
makes  all  the  difference.  It  is  no  longer  the  same." 

Lance  bethought  him  of  those  reported  cases  in  which 
the  stock  of  negroes  and  whites  had  been  blended,  and 
he  feared  that  it  would  be  next  to  hopeless  for  him  to 
overcome  Jessie's  aversion.  Still  he  said  :  "  But  that  is 
so  far  off,  child.  She  is  so  like  us  now,  that  I  can't  help 
thinking  of  her  as  if  she  might  be  a  kinswoman  of  yours 
— can't  help  taking  an  interest  in  her  welfare." 

"  Never  say  that  to  me  again  !"  cried  Jessie.  "No 
one  in  that  class  shall  be  considered  as  a  kinswoman  of 
mine.  If  you  are  going  to  give  yourself  up  to  such 
fancies  as  these,  you  may  as  well  choose  between  them 
and  me." 


94  TRUE. 

Her  tone  exasperated  Lance,  but  he  controlled  him- 
self. "Dearest,"  he  said,  "1  have  given  myself  up 
only  to  you.  You  know  it  ;  don't  you  ?" 

Then  Jessie  showed  contrition,  and  humbly,  while  the 
tears  rose  to  her  eyes,  acknowledged  her  hastiness  ;  and 
the  little  quarrel  proved  to  be  only  a  convenient  ground- 
work for  new  demonstrations  of  mutual  tenderness. 
But  there  remained  in  Lance's  mind  a  residuum  of 
doubt,  lest  his  betrothed  should  not  fully  sympathize  with 
all  his  impulses,  his  desire  to  be  true  to  every  one  who 
could  justly  make  a  claim  upon  him.  He  did  not 
abandon  the  project,  which  had  unconsciously  been  tak- 
ing shape,  of  somehow  including  Adela  in  his  schemes 
of  improvement. 

While  this  dubious  colloquy  was  fresh  in  his  thoughts, 
it  chanced  that  Sylvester  De  Yine,  responding  to  the  in- 
vitation he  had  thrown  out  at  the  races,  trudged  up  to  the 
manor  to  see  him.  Lance's  love  affair,  and  the  misty 
problem  concerning  Adela,  had  not  prevented  him  from 
giving  a  good  deal  of  meditation  to  his  plans,  which  he 
had  also  talked  over  with  Colonel  Floyd,  regarding  in- 
vestment in  new  enterprises.  Consequently,  he  was 
primed  for  the  interview  with  Sylv. 

At  that  time  the  process  of  making  paper  from  the  ref- 
use of  Louisiana  sugar-cane,  commonly  called  "  bagasse," 
had  scarcely  been  thought  of  ;  Lance,  at  any  rate,  had 
never  heard  it  suggested  ;  but  it  had  occurred  to  him 
that  the  glutinous  reeds,  which  grew  in  such  unmeasured 
abundance  along  this  marshy  North  Carolina  coast, 
might  be  utilized  in  paper-manufacture  ;  and  he  had 
annexed  the  idea  to  his  other  pet  desire  of  reclaiming 
Elbow  Crook  Swamp.  He  was  anxious  to  enlist  Sylv  in 
both  these  enterprises,  having  already  ascertained  that 
the  young  fellow  was  far  more  receptive  and  progressive 


LAIsCE   AND   SYLVESTER.  95 

than  Colonel  Floyd.  What  he  needed  was  an  assistant 
who  would  give  time  and  energy  to  the  preliminary 
steps  and  experiments,  animated  by  faith  and  assisted  by 
due  compensation  in  money. 

"  Would  you  undertake  to  explore  the  swamp  for  me, 
and  give  me  a  detailed  report  ?"  he  asked  Sylv. 

"It  would  be  very  difficult,"  Sylv  answered,  "and 
would  take  time.  I  might  do  it  for  you,  though,  by  and 
by." 

"Oh,  there's  no  immediate  hurry.  You  can  wait  a 
while.  I  shall  probably  have  to  go  North  during  the 
winter  on  business  and  to  arrange  about  mobilizing 
capital  to  work  with  here.  1  want  to  find  out  what  is 
practicable  before  I  do  anything  serious.  But,  in  the 
meanwhile,  we  might  start  in  on  a  trial  of  the  reed-pulp 
for  paper." 

Sylv  pulled  his  tangled  beard  meditatively,  and  replied  : 
"  That  won't  help  me  much  with  my  law  studies." 

"  Yes,  it  will,  indirectly,"  Lance  declared.  Then, 
after  reflecting,  he  added  :  "  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do  ! 
I'll  give  you  some  assistance  for  the  present,  so  that  you 
can  go  on  reading.  It  won't  do  you  any  harm.  After- 
ward, you  can  undertake  my  job." 

It  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that,  from  this  begin- 
ning, they  should  go  on  to  speak  of  Adela.  "  She 
astonishes  me,"  said  Lance.  "  I  did  not  expect  to  find 
any  one  like  her  here.  It's  a  pity  that  she  can't  have  a 
chance  to  develop,  too." 

Sylv  cast  a  sharp  glance  at  the  young  philanthropist. 
It  may  have  been  that  the  remark  threw  a  new  light  for 
him  upon  Lance,  or  upon  Adela, 

"  Yes,  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  her,"  he  replied, 
with  moderate  enthusiasm.  "  She's  engaged  to  marry 
my  brother — Dennie." 


96  TRUE. 

This  was  news  to  Lance,  and  it  took  him  by  surprise. 
Somehow,  his  first  sensation  was  one  of  disappointment, 
though  he  could  not  have  explained  to  himself  or  any  one 
else  why.  In  Sylv's  accent,  also,  there  was  a  vague  hint 
of  despondency,  as  he  made  his  announcement.  Possi- 
bly it  was  the  first  sign  of  a  sentiment  which  he  had  not, 
up  to  that  time,  suspected.  The  two  men  dropped  into 
silence  for  a  moment. 

"  Well,"  said  Lance,  with  abrupt  energy,  "  that's  all 
right,  I  suppose.  And  Pni  engaged  to  Miss  Jessie.  It 
will  be  all  the  pleasanter  to  have  you  and  Dennie  and 
Adela  working  with  us  for  a  common  end." 

It  was  taking  a  sanguine  view,  to  suppose  that  such  a 
harmony  could  be  maintained  ;  but  it  gave  Sylv  great 
pleasure,  although  he  saw  the  difficulties  in  the  way. 
His  face  lighted  with  surprise,  which  gradually  changed 
to  quiet  satisfaction. 

The  two  men  talked  long  and  earnestly,  and  by  the 
time  Sylv  set  out  for  home  they  had  agreed  that  they 
would  try  to  persuade  Adela  to  go  to  school  at  Newbern, 
Lance  undertaking  the  expenses. 

"  I'm  not  main  certain  Dennie'll  let  her,"  Sylv 
warned  him,  as  they  parted. 

"'But  he  ought  to  be  very  glad  to  have  her  go," 
Lance  replied.  He  had  no  misgivings  on  that  score. 

Sylv  was'  brimming  with  eagerness  and  anticipation 
for  Adela' s  future  as  it  expanded  before  his  vision,  in 
the  light  of  his  friend's  generous  offer  ;  and  it  was  a 
new  experience  to  him  to  be  treated  as  an  equal,  almost 
a  companion,  by  one  so  much  above  him  in  position  and 
fortune.  Altogether,  he  felt  very  happy.  His  desire 
for  intellectual  improvement  was  so  single  and  control- 
ling, that  he  was  able  to  extend  to  another  the  same 
congratulation  he  gave  himself  ;  and  the  prospect  just 


LANCE   AtfD   SYLVESTER.  97 

opened  for  Adela  filled  him  with  keen,  unselfish  delight. 
As  he  had  told  Denriie,  his  regard  for  her  was  simply 
that  of  a  brother  ;  and  it  was  only  in  the  opportunity  as 
presented  to  a  sister  that  he  rejoiced.  Yet  he  found, 
when  he  came  to  mention  the  matter  to  Dennie,  that  it 
threatened  to  renew  in  some  measure  the  trouble  which 
had  recently  come  between  them. 

"  I'm  glad  for  your  luck,  Sylv,"  said  Dennie,  in  a 
cordial  tone.  "  But  'pears  to  me  you  uns  might  kinder 
be  satisfied  with  polishin'  and  rubbin'  on  your  own 
brains  and  makin'  'em  all  smooth  and  shiny,  'thout  inter- 
ferin'  with  Deely.  'Fears  to  me  like  she  ar'  good 
enough  the  way  she  ar'  now.  That's  what." 

"  So  she  is,"  Sylv  assented.  "  But  it  would  make  her 
happier,  and  she'd  have  a  heap  more  real  pleasure  in  life, 
if  she  could  be  educated.  She  was  very  glad  to  learn  to 
read,  you  know.  Now,  this  is  one  chance  out  of  a  thou- 
sand ;  she  may  never  get  another." 

Dennie,  however,  was  not  open  to  argument.  Ho 
looked  with  favor  on  the  scheme  of  Sylv's  receiving 
money  and  employment  from  Lance,  partly  because  it 
would  gratify  his  brother  and  partly  because  it  would 
lighten  his  own  cares  and  bring  him  nearer  to  marriage 
with  Deely  ;  but  if  Deely  was  to  be  included  in  the 
abstract  movement  for  unnecessary  culture,  he  would  be 
as  badly  off  as  before. 

In  spite  of  Dennie' s  opposition,  Sylv  could  not  relin- 
quish the  plan  ;  and  he  had  the  imprudence  to  broach  it 
with  Deely  on  his  own  account.  She  did  not  manifest 
any  pronounced  desire  to  enter  into  it,  but  they  talked 
of  it  several  times,  and  it  was  evident  that  she  was  con- 
sidering it. 

Dennie  heard  of  those  consultations,  of  course,  and 
reproached  his  brother.  lie  exerted  great  force  of  self- 


98  TRUE. 

command,  and  avoided  any  outbreak  of  temper  ;  he 
was  resolved  never  to  be  jealous  again.  But  Sylv  saw 
that  the  subject  was  a  dangerous  one,  and  he  promised 
not  to  urge  it  upon  Deely  any  further.  Sorrowfully  and 
apologetically  he  conveyed  to  Lance  the  information  of 
this  obstacle  to  Deely's  acceptance  of  his  proposal,  and 
said  that  he  feared  she  could  do  nothing  about  it. 

It  was  reserved  for  Dennie  himself  to  bring  about, 
unwillingly,  the  consummation  of  Lance's  philanthropic 
design. 

There  was  to  be  a  wedding-party  at  a  house  in  the 
woods,  near  Hunting  Quarters,  to  which  the  young 
people  were  invited.  Dennie  came  to  Reefe's  early,  in 
order  to  escort  Deely  to  the  scene  of  the  ceremony  ;  and 
on  their  way  to  the  wedding  he  spoke  of  the  school 
idea. 

"  We  ought  to  be  goin'  to  the  parson,  'stead  of  your 
goin'  to  that  thar  school,"  he  said.  He  urged  her  again 
to  fix  the  time  for  their  marriage. 

Deely  still  demurred.  "  I'm  only  nineteen,"  she  an- 
swered. "  I  reckon  I  won't  be  too  old  if  I  do  wait  a 
while." 

Dennie  was  very  much  put  out  by  her  obduracy.  "  I 
don't  know  what  to  make  out'n  the  way  you  go  on,"  he 
complained.  "  Mebbe  y ou'  re  goin'  to  that  thar  school, 
after  all." 

"  'T wouldn't  be  strange  if  I  did,"  said  she,  although 
she  had  in  reality  abandoned  the  thought. 

He  persisted  in  urging  his  wishes  ;  she  continued  in  a 
contrary  mood  ;  and  Dennie  at  last  refused  to  talk. 
They  completed  their  walk  to  the  house  of  the  hymeneal 
merrymaking  in  a  bitter  silence,  both  very  miserable. 
But  Deely  possessed  the  advantage  of  expressing  her 
unhappiness  by  means  of  the  greatest  gayety,  while 


LANCE   AND   SYLVESTER.  99 

Dennie  had  to  fall  back  upon  the  more  ordinary  mascu- 
line resource  of  looking  glum  and  morose. 

There  was  an  abundance  of  corn-whiskey  and  of 
"  common  doin's,"  as  well  as  of  "  chicken  fixin's,"  with 
other  delicacies,  at  the  supper  and  dance  which  followed 
the  brief  formality  of  the  wedding-service.  The  simple- 
hearted  and  jolly  guests  proceeded  to  have  a  very  good 
time  ;  and  while  the  bride  and  groom  remained  in  one 
corner,  happy  at  being  ignored,  the  rest  shuffled  to  and 
fro  in  a  lively  jig,  stamping  their  heels,  indulging  in 
sundry  gratuitous  capers,  and  shouting  with  laughter. 
Dennie,  meanwhile,  devoted  a  much  closer  attention 
than  was  needful  to  the  corn-whiskey,  the  forcible  quality 
of  which  he  could  have  ascertained  by  a  single  drink. 

It  may  have  been  due  to  his  diligence  in  reducing  the 
supply  of  the  beverage  that,  as  the  hilarity  of  the  others 
increased,  and  as  Deely  grew  more  and  more  excited 
with  the  dance,  his  depression  and  gloom  deepened 
portentously.  He  had  taken  no  part  in  the  dancing,  and 
had  begun  by  affecting  to  watch  Deely's  energetic  share 
in  it  with  indifference.  But  it  was  impossible  for  him 
to  keep  up  this  pretence,  and  the  climax  came  when  he 
saw  his  betrothed  giving  her  hand  for  the  third  or  fourth 
time  to  Dan  Billings,  a  handsome  young  fisherman 
against  whom  she  knew  that  Dennie  cherished  a  special 
grudge. 

Dennie  stepped  forth  upon  the  floor  that  trembled 
with  the  heavy  tread  of  the  athletic  revellers,  and,  shov- 
ing his  way  between  the  astonished  pairs  of  youths  and 
maidens,  struck  a  commanding  posture. 

"  This  hyar's  enough  !"  he  screamed,  confronting 
Deely.  "  It's  time  to  go  home  ;  and  I'm  goin'  to  take 
ye  with  me,  right  now.  D'ye  hear  ?" 

The  old  fiddler,  mounted  on  a  box  at  one  side  of  the 


100  TRUE. 

room,  stopped  the  frantic  discord  lie  had  been  sawing 
from  the  strings,  and  began  mechanically  to  rosin  his  bow 
with  a  lump  of  the  best  virgin-pine  rosin. 

"  I  could  ha'  heard  you  if  you'd  stayed  over  t'other 
side,"  Deely  retorted,  her  dark  cheeks  flaming  angrily  ; 
' '  if  you  war  goin'  to  shout  out  so,  what  do  you  want  to 
come  so  close  ?" 

"  I  say,"  repeated  Deimie,  in  a  more  subdued  voice, 
"  I'm  goin'  along,  and  1  mean  for  to  take  you  with  me. 
Dan  Billings  ain't  goin'  to  dance  with  you  no  more  this 
night." 

Upon  this  Billings,  who  was  a  vigorous  young  fellow., 
asserted  his  rights,  and  gave  Dennie  to  understand 
roundly  that  no  one  should  dictate  to  him  his  choice  of 
partners,  "  when  the  lady  was  willin'." 

A  serious  result  was  imminent ;  for  Billings,  elated  by 
his  apparent  success  with  Deely,  became  increasingly 
noisy  and  bumptious,  and  retorts  flew  hotly  from  one 
man  to  the  other,  until  Billings  raised  his  fist  to  strike 
a  blow  at  Dennie.  When  it  came  to  that,  Deely 
stepped  between  the  wranglers,  and  prevented  their 
fighting. 

"  Now  you're  wrong,  Dan  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  You 
both  ought  to  be  ashamed,  making  me  so  much  trouble. 
But  there  sha'n't  be  a  fight,  whatever.  I'm  goin'  home 
this  minute,  along  with  Dennie." 

The  other  girls  had  drawn  aside,  dumb  and  frightened, 
and  the  men  were  disposed  in  a  group  around  the  chief 
actors,  feeling  that  they  ought  to  interfere,  but  restrained 
by  a  respect  for  the  privilege  of  fighting,  which  they 
might  some  time  wish  to  exercise  on  their  own  account. 
Billings  relaxed  his  clinched  fingers,  quite  abashed  at 
being  so  abruptly  robbed  of  his  dignity  as  Deely 's 
champion  ;  but  it  took  a  few  moments  to  cool  Dennie's 


LANCE   A^D   SYLVESTER.  101 

•wrath.  He  insisted  that  the  fisherman  had  "  told  him 
insults,"  and  must  be  punished. 

"I'm  waiting,"  Deely  reminded  him.  "  You  said 
you  was  going,  and  now  I'm  ready." 

The  bride  and  groom  remained  oblivious  of  all  this 
stir,  but  the  bride's  mother  came  forward,  urging  Deely 
not  to  leave  them.  The  girl,  however,  would  not  yield. 
Every  one  could  see  that  she  was  greatly  incensed  at 
Dennie's  conduct,  but  there  was  a  decisive  calm  about 
her  that  made  persuasion  useless.  She  had,  in  fact, 
arrived  at  a  conclusion  much  more  far-reaching,  which 
she  lost  no  time  in  imparting  to  Dennie  when  they  had 
left  the  house. 

"  My  mind's  made  up,"  she  said  to  him,  without  heat. 
"  I've  borne  your  tantrums  as  long  as  I  can,  and  it's  no 
use.  By  and  by  it'll  get  so  that  1  can't  have  any  will  or 
way  of  my  own,  and  I  don't  think  you'll  ever  be  any- 
better,  Dennie,  until  I'm  far  away  where  you  can't 
tease  me.  Yes  ;  I've  made  up  my  mind.  I'm  goin'  to 
that  school." 

To  Dennis  the  announcement  was  like  a  knell.  His 
bmlst  of  temper  had  left  him  much  quieter  and,  as  usual, 
rather  ashamed  ;  and  he  felt  that  Deely 's  intention  of 
punishing  him  was  quite  justifiable.  Still,  he  could  not 
as  yet  believe  that  she  would  carry  it  out. 

"  You  won't  treat  me  so  hard  as  that,"  he  protested. 
"  Think  it  over  another  time,  Deely.  Everything'd  be 
all  right  if  you'd  only  marry  me." 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it,"  was  her  answer. 
"I've  decided,  now,  and  I'm  goin'  away." 

In  the  course  of  the  next  few  days  her  lover  was 
forced  to  recognize  that  she  was  in  earnest,  and  her  re- 
solve irrevocable.  An  extra  session  at  the  small  academy 
for  young  ladies  which  Lance  had  selected  was  about  to 


102  TliUE. 

begin  ;  and,  through  Sylv,  Adela  obtained  a  conference 
with  him  on  the  subject  of  going  thither.  Old  Reefe 
put  in  some  objections  ;  but  as  Adela  was  determined  he 
gave  way,  and  the  final  arrangements  were  soon  made. 

The  conference  just  referred  to  took  place  near  the 
manor.  Lance  met  Sylv  and  Adela  in  the  grounds,  by 
appointment,  and  talked  over  the  details  with  them. 
But  just  as  they  were  bidding  him  good-by  Colonel 
Floyd  came  strolling  along  ;  and  Lance,  in  walking  back 
to  the  house  with  him,  told  him,  full  of  enthusiasm, 
what  he  had  done.  The  colonel  seemed  to  think  it 
rather  strange. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  what  has  put  this  into  your  head  ?'* 
he  asked. 

"  Why,  it  seems  to  me  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world,"  Lance  replied.  "  It  grew  out  of  my  plans,  when 
I  was  consulting  young  De  Tine.  Besides" — he  hesi- 
tated an  instant — "  something  leads  me  to  feel  a  peculiar 
interest  in  this  yonng  woman. " 

"  Evidently,"  said  the  colonel,  "  or  you  never  would 
become  her  benefactor. "  But  he  volunteered  DO  criti- 
cism further  than  to  say  :  "  Pm  not  altogether  sure, 
Lance,  that  you  are  doing  wisely. " 

"  If  you  think,"  said  his  prospective  son-in-law, 
"  that  there ^s  any  good  reason  why  I  shouldn't  befriend 
her,  I  suppose  I  could  abandon  the  thing,  though  I've 
committed  myself  now. " 

The  colonel  devoted  a  few  moments  to  reflection, 
under  cover  of  his  spectacles.  Then  he  said  :  "  No,  I 
am  not  clear  that  there  is  any  sufficient  reason.  It 
struck  me  as  odd,  and  may  seem  so  to  others.  But 
then,  in  your  character —  You  see,  you  are  something  of 
a  professed  philanthropist,  and  people  will  learn  to  under- 
stand it  on  that  ground.  Otherwise — "  Once  more  he 


LANCE   AND   SYLVESTER.  103 

broke  off,  and  resumed  :  "  You  are  the  next  tiling  to  a 
married  man,  now,  which  makes  it  proper  enough  for 
you  to  take  the  poor  girl  under  your  wing.  Perhaps 
you  had  better  talk  with  Jessie  about  it." 

Somehow  the  phrase  (i  poor  girl  "  grated  slightly  upon 
Lance's  ear.  Nor  did  he  relish  the  prospect  of  debating 
with  Jessie  the  wisdom  of  his  proceeding  ;  but  it  was  plain 
that  he  would  have  to  do  so.  It  was  true  there  had  been 
no  trace  of  the  clandestine  in  his  undertaking,  and  he  had 
asked  Sylv  to  bring  Adela  to  the  garden  only  because  he 
considered  the  whole  transaction  as  a  side-issue,  in  which 
he  was  separately  concerned  ;  hence  he  preferred  not  to 
thrust  it  upon  the  colonel  or  his  daughter.  But  it  was 
also  true  that  Jessie's  vigorous  rejection  of  his  theory 
about  Adela  had  made  him  less  sure  of  her  approval  than 
he  would  have  liked  to  be. 

By  one  of  the  surprises  frequent  in  the  moods  of  women, 
even  though  one  supposes  their  views  to  be  settled  on  a 
particular  point,  it  turned  out  that  Jessie,  when  consulted, 
did  not  oppose  his  design. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  over  what  you  said,  dear,  about 
educating  people,"  she  announced  to  him,  "  and  perhaps 
you  are  right.  If  you're  wrong,  you'll  find  it  out  by  an 
experiment.  So  all  I  have  to  say  is,  '  Go  ahead. '  That's 
the  way  you'd  like  to  have  me  put  it,  isn't  it  ?" 

Pier  Avhole  manner  was  sweet  and  trustful ;  she  wanted  to 
make  amends  to  him.  But,  unless  I  am  mistaken,  Lance's 
effort  on  behalf  of  Adela  was  not  entirely  to  her  taste. 

Thus,  while  they  endeavored  to  keep  up  a  good  under- 
standing, an  entering  wedge  of  doubt  and  possible  divi- 
sion had  been  put  in  place. 

The  day  having  come  for  Adela' s  departure,  difficulty 
arose  as  to  her  escort,  if  she  was  to  have  any.  Aunty 
Losh  was  not  precisely  the  person  to  introduce  her  at  a 


104  TRUE. 

Young  Ladies'  Academy  ;  and  Dennis  also  felt  himself  to 
be  inadequate  for  that  duty.  Sylv,  as  was  natural,  re- 
frained from  offering  his  services.  Neither  was  it  possi- 
ble for  Lance  to  accompany  her.  The  end  of  it  was  that 
Aunty  Losh  and  Dennis  went  with  her  by  wagon  as  far 
as  Beaufort,  and  there  she  took  the  train  alone  for  New- 
berri.  Lance  had  been  to  the  city  and  prepared  the  way 
for  her,  so  that  she  might  be  received  by  the  principal  of 
the  school,  at  the  station. 

But  the  time  which  followed  was  a  dreary  period  to 
poor  Dennis.  Knowing  his  own  faults,  and  that  his  loss 
in  Adela's  exile  had  been  brought  on  by  himself,  he  made 
no  remonstrance  after  he  saw  that  her  purpose  could  not 
be  altered.  But  his  wonted  cheeriness  and  energy  forsook 
him  as  soon  as  she  had  gone  ;  he  performed  his  daily  tasks 
in  a  listless  and  perfunctory  way  ;  he  talked  little,  and 
did  not  forget  his  misery  long  enough  to  smile.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  abstained  from  complaint  ;  but  occasion- 
ally, when  alone  with  Aunty  Losh,  he  would  confer  with 
her  briefly  about  Adela  and  the  change  that  had  occurred. 
The  jealousy  that  took  root  with  such  ease  in  his  unculti- 
vated mind,  and  sprang  up  there  like  a  weed  at  the  slight- 
est encouragement,  soon  began  to  nourish  again  on  a 
suspicion  that  Lance  must  have  some  interested  motive  in 
helping  Adela.  Aunty  Losh,  it  must  be  said,  was  not  a 
good  counsellor.  Much  as  Dennis  tried  to  conceal  this 
new  source  of  trouble,  it  was  perfectly  apparent  to  her  ; 
and,  because  Dennis  was  her  favorite  and  she  instinctively 
sided  against  all  innovations,  she  fanned  the  flame  instead 
of  quenching  it. 

"  I  reckon  Deely  may  be  your  wife  one  o'  these  hyar 
days,"  she  said,  when  they  had  been  discussing  his  af- 
fairs and  Lance's  connection  with  them  over  a  cup  of 
yaupon.  "  Who  would  ha'  thoiit  you  wouldn't  been 


LANCE   AND   SYLVESTER.  105 

her  husband  now  ?  But  there's  an  old  sayin'  what's  in 
my  head,  that  the  man  as  has  got  his  hand  on  the  back 
o'  the  chair  is  mighty  often  the  one  as  sits  down  in  it." 

Dennis  saw  the  application,  and  was  filled  with  alarm. 
Possibly  it  had  its  effect  in  prompting  him  to  seek  as- 
sistance from  Sylv  ;  but  his  loneliness,  and  the  harass- 
ing" thought  that  Adela  might  also  be  lonely,  or  that 
something  might  go  amiss  in  her  new  surroundings,  where 
he  could  not  be  present  to  help  her,  had  a  great  deal  to  do 
with  his  impulse.  Besides,  in  contrition  both  for  his 
jealousy  of  Sylv  and  his  general  disagreeableness  toward 
his  betrothed,  he  fancied  that  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  to 
show  that  he  cared  for  her  at  a  distance,  and  that  he 
trusted  his  brother. 

'"  Sylv,"  said  he,  one  evening,  while  they  were  finish- 
ing the  bestowment  of  the  day's  catch  in  the  shed  at  one 
side  of  the  cabin,  where  they  kept  the  fish  cool  by  means 
of  spring  water — "  Sylv,  I'd  like  right  well  to  have  you 
do  somethin'  for  me." 

"  Say  the  word,  Dennie,"  Sylv  returned. 

"  1 — I  want  you  to  go  up  thar  to  the  city  and  stay 
thar,  whar  ye  can  see  Deely  and  make  her  feel  like  she 
had  a  real,  true  friend — some  one  to  'tend  on  her  as  I 
mout,  if  I  was  fit — and  to  help  her  if  she  want  any  help. 
Dog-gone  it  !  Hebbe  it's  foolish,  and  I  reckon  she  ar' 
happy  enough  and  won't  need  nothin',  but  'pears  like 
1  couldn't  stand  it,  the  way  'tis  now.  I  want  ye  to  go, 
Sylv — for  me." 

"  You  ask  me  to  do  this,  Dennie  ?"  said  Sylv.  "  "Why 
did  you  think  of  my  going  ?  Why  not  go  yourself  ?" 

"'Cause  I'm  not  fit  for't.  An'  what's  more,  she 
don't  want  me.  She  said  she  war  a-goin'  away,  so's  she 
could  be  alone,  and  I  could  be  alone.  An'  I  couldn't  do 
nothin'  if  1  was  thar,  Sylv." 


106  TRUE. 

"  I  see.  It  would  be  some  comfort  to  YOU  if  I  were 
to  go.  If  you're  sure  you  want  it,  Dennie,  1  reckon  I 
can  manage." 

"  There  ain't  no  more  doubt  on  it,"  answered  Dennie, 
"  than  when  I  put  my  helm  down  to  starboard  to  get 
the  east  breeze,  steerin'  north'ard.  There  ain't  no  one 
else  I  can  count  on,  Sylv,  'less  it  be  you.  An',  Sylv,  I 
— I  trust  you  ;  1  got  faith  in  you  !" 

He  held  out  his  rough  hand,  and  Sylv  grasped  it 
firmly.  There  were  tears  in  Dennie's  eyes,  seeing 
which  Sylv  pressed  his  brother's  weather-beaten  palm 
the  harder. 

"  All  right,  Dennie.     I  won't  fail  you." 

And  so  the  compact  was  made. 

Sylv  was  absolutely  honest  in  what  he  said.  He  knew 
but  one  ambition,  and  the  gaining  of  any  woman's  love 
had  never  formed  a  part  of  it.  Why  was  it,  then,  that 
his  spirits  rose  so  at  the  thought  of  being  near  Adela 
once  more  ? 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    LIKENESS. 

Y"ocr  remember  how  little  Lance  had  seen  of  Adela 
Iteefe,  and  that  he  knew  her  scarcely  at  all.  But  this 
makes  it  the  stranger,  and  rendered  it  at  the  time  all  the 
more  unaccountable  to  him,  that,  on  her  removal  from 
his  neighborhood,  he  should  have  been  afflicted  with  a 
sense  of  vacancy,  and  should  have  suffered  from  the 
melancholy  which  one  might  expect  to  feel  when 


THE   LIKENESS.  107 

suddenly  separated  from  a  dear  friend.  Was  lie  not 
engaged  to  Jessie,  and  thoroughly  contented  in  his  love  ? 
Moreover,  Adela  had  not  entered  into  his  life  as  an  im- 
portant factor.  Yet,  now  that  she  was  gone,  he  per- 
ceived how  quickly  and  completely  the  web  of  surmises 
which  he  had  thrown  around  her  had  taken  him  also  into 
its  tangles.  Her  identity  and  destiny  had  engaged  his 
thoughts  far  more  deeply  than  he  had  guessed. 

Acting  on  his  offer  of  assistance,  and  obeying  Dennie's 
wish,  Sylv  presently  came  to  him  to  suggest  that  he 
would  like  to  go  to  Newbern  to  pursue  his  studies. 

"But  1  have  just  made  arrangements,"  Lance  told 
him,  "  to  put  up  a  small  building  where  we  can  experi- 
ment with  reed-pulp  ;  and  1  expected  you  to  assist  me." 

Not  without  embarrassment,  Sylv  made  known  the 
special  reason  proposed  by  Dennie  for  his  going.  Lance 
thought  the  plan  a  rather  curious  one,  and  allowed  him- 
self a  queer,  vicarious  jealousy  on  Dennie's  account,  at 
the  notion  of  his  being  so  far  from  Adela  when  his 
brother  should  be  in  the  same  town  with  her.  But  he  had 
promised  to  help  Sylv  ;  so  he  consented  to  send  him  to 
Newbern  and  maintain  him  there  for  a  while,  the  cost 
to  be  returned  in  future  services. 

"Perhaps  Dennie  will  take  a  hand  with  me  in  the 
pulp  experiments,"  he  reflected. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  a  shed  was  built  in  the 
woods  not  far  from  the  manor,  where  a  boiler  and  a 
small  beater  and  washer  were  placed,  convenient  to  the 
limited  water  supply  from  a  "run"  or  creek.  An  ex- 
perienced vatman  was  sent  for  from  the  North  ;  Dennie 
was  engaged  to  collect  and  haul  reeds,  and  aid  in  other 
ways  when  he  could.  All  this  involved  a  good  deal  of 
expense,  and  the  colonel  watched  the  work  with  sup- 
pressed horror  at  the  young  man's  extravagance.  But 


108  TEUE. 

the  experiments  went  on,  and  Lance  became  enthusiastic 
over  the  details  of  drying  the  reeds,  getting  the  mixture 
of  caustic  alkali  just  right  for  boiling,  and  trying  rags  in 
various  proportions.  Finally  he  was  able  to  produce 
from  the  vat  a  few  sheets  of  tolerably  good  hand-made 
paper,  on  which  he  fancied  that  he  could  see  already  in- 
scribed a  record  of  the  profits  that  were  to  be  his. 

It  took  many  weeks,  however,  to  accomplish  that 
much.  At  first  Jessie  entered  into  the  new  enterprise 
with  great  interest,  and  made  it  doubly  charming  to  him; 
but  after  a  while,  finding  that  it  consumed  her  lover's 
time  and  distracted  his  attention  from  her,  she  began  to 
regard  the  fascinating  shed,  with  its  boiler  and  engine 
and  rude  apparatus,  as  a  dangerous  rival.  Nothing 
daunted  by  such  symptoms  of  her  discontent  as  he  ob- 
served, Lance  continued  his  application  with  a  fervor 
that  seemed  to  her  little  less  than  fanatical.  Meanwhile 
he  saw  Dennie  very  often,  and  was  constantly  in  receipt 
of  news  about  Adela  from  him. 

Indeed,  since  neither  Aunty  Losh  nor  Dennie  had  ever 
become  enslaved  to  the  luxury  of  reading,  it  was  neces- 
sary for  Lance  to  interpret  Adela' s  letters  to  them. 
These  epistles,  in  the  beginning,  were  somewhat  slight 
and  informal.  They  would  begin  thus  :  "1  write  to 
inform  you  that  I  am  enjoying  good  health.  I  hope  you 
are  the  same."  But  as  she  went  on  with  her  studies, 
and  as  the  various  particulars  of  her  new  life  appealed 
more  decidedly  to  her  attention,  her  style  became  more 
familiar  and  cordial ;  she  described  what  happened  at 
the  school,  day  by  day,  and  often  lit  up  her  account  of 
events  with  flashes  of  humor  that,  to  Lance,  were 
delightful.  She  hit  off  some  of  the  absurdities  of 
modern  routine  education  with  a  surprising  sharpness  of 
perception,  and  was  greatly  amused  at  the  old  theologian 


THE   LIKENESS.  109 

wlio  attended  to  the  religions  instruction  of  the  girls. 
He  had  shown  her  some  books  of  Hebrew,  the  characters 
in  which  reminded  her  of  her  own  invented  patterns  in 
silk  and  beads.  But  withal  it  transpired  from  what  she 
wrote,  that  she  made  astounding  progress  in  her  lessons. 
She  quickly  outstripped  her  classmates  in  their  work, 
and  was  promoted  to  a  higher  grade.  Lance  wondered 
whether  this  were  due  to  the  stored-up  energy  of  a 
nature  that  was  in  some  respects  primitive,  or  whether  it 
came  from  inherited  aptitude — an  aptitude  derived 
partly,  through  the  dim  centuries,  from  Gertrude 
Wylde.  Several  times  she  alluded  to  Lance,  and  sent  to 
him  reserved  messages  of  friendly  thanks  for  his  kind- 
ness ;  but  perhaps  she  would  not  have  written  so 
familiarly  on  other  topics  if  she  had  known  that  he  was 
to  see  her  letters.  The  truth  was,  it  had  not  occurred  to 
her  that  her  betrothed  and  his  aunt  would  apply  to  Lance 
to  decipher  her  letters.  And  Lance,  embarrassed  by 
these  references  to  himself,  refrained  from  disclosing 
them. 

Inevitably,  from  the  supervision  which  thus  fell  to  his 
lot  over  everything  Adela  did  or  said  or  thought,  so  far 
as  her  letters  formed  a  record,  it  ensued  that  his  interest 
in  her  increased.  I  am  afraid  he  watched  those  letters 
with  an  alertness  not  to  be  excused,  for  some  trace  of  a 
thoughtfulness  respecting  him,  equal  to  his  own  toward 
1  her  ;  and  when  she  addressed  to  him  directly  a  short 
communication,  to  tell  him  how  she  was  getting  on,  and 
how  grateful  she  was  for  his  assistance,  it  was  in  a  mood 
closely  akin  to  disappointment  that  he  read  it  through 
without  having  detected  a  word  that  could  be  construed 
as  indicating  even  a  commencement  of  friendship. 

Now  and  again  he  contemplated  turning  the  letters 
over  to  Jessie,  and  felt  a  desire  to  talk  with  her  about 


110  TRUE. 

the  progress  of  his  pupil.  But  he  fancied  that  she 
would  receive  the  confidence  coldly,  and  he  forbore  to 
say  anything,  except  in  the  most  general  terms.  Why, 
in  the  mean  time,  he  should  expect  anything  more  from 
Adela  than  a  formal  recognition  of  indebtedness,  was  a 
riddle  to  him  ;  but  nevertheless  he  knew  that  he  was 
unsatisfied. 

It  should  be  understood  that  his  peculiar  state  of  mind 
was  not  at  any  one  time  clearly  apparent  to  him  ;  ho 
merely  caught  glimpses  of  it.  His  preoccupation  with 
the  paper  manufacture  all  the  while  kept  his  attention 
busy,  and  it  was  but  dimly  that  he  perceived  what  was 
going  on  in  other  regards.  But  when  his  experiments 
had  reached  their  culmination,  and  he  had  decided  to 
build  a  mill  and  begin  operations,  it  became  necessary  for 
him  to  go  North.  He  resolved  to  run  up  to  Newborn, 
first,  and  see  Adela  Reefe,  before  bidding  good-by  to 
Jessie.  This  intention  he  was  about  to  confide  to  Jessie, 
when  one  morning  she  unexpectedly  presented  herself  at 
the  engine-shed,  at  the  moment  when  he  was  perusing  a 
recent  letter  from  his  charge. 

"  So  I've  found  you  at  last  !"  cried  Jessie,  standing 
by  the  sill  of  the  open  shed-door,  wrapped  in  a  light 
shawl,  with  a  broad  hat  bent  archly  over  her  head,  and 
looking  wonderfully  pretty.  She  caught  sight  of  the 
letter.  "  Aha  !"  she  said.  "  I  thought  you  came  here 
to  work.  But  it's  only  make-believe,  1  see.  "Well,  I've 
a  great  mind  to  write  you  letters  myself  and  send  them 
down  to  you  here  to  read." 

"  Oh,  it's  only  a  letter  from  Adela  Reefe,"  Lance 
answered.  "  Dennie  De  Vine  brought  it  ;  he's  just 
gone  away  again.  Would  you  like  to  see  it  ?" 

The  vatman  was  occupied  at  the  other  end  of  the 
shed.  Jessie  took  the  letter  and  glanced  at  it  ;  then 


THE   LIKENESS.  Ill 

returned  it  to  her  lover,  indifferently.  "  Deely  seems 
to  be  quite  contented,"  she  observed.  "  When  are  you 
going  to  finish,  Ned  ?" 

"  Finish  ?  Ton  mean  what  I'm  doing  here  ?  Why, 
I  can  go  with  you  now,  if  you  want." 

11 1  wish  you  would,  then.  1  feel  just  like  having  a 
little  walk  and  talk.  You're  going  away  so  soon,  it's 
only  fair  I  should  see  something  of  you." 

"  1  know  that,  dearest,"  said  Lance,  "  and  I'm  afraid 
I've  spent  too  much  time  over  this  business.  It's  only 
fair  to  me,  too,  that  we  should  be  together." 

They  sauntered  away  in  company,  and  strolled  through 
the  woods.  "I  have  been  thinking,"  he  told  her, 
"that  1  ought  to  start  in  two  or  three  days.  But  I 
must  see  Adela  and  Sylv  first.  I  don't  want  to  go  North 
without  knowing  just  how  they  seem  up  there,  in  their 
new  life." 

A  change  came  over  Jessie's  manner.  "  You  mustn't 
go  !"  she  said,  with  sudden  vehemence.  "  It  isn't 
right,  Ned." 

"Not  right,  my  dear.  Why?"  Lance  bent  his 
earnest,  clean-cut  features  to  look  down  at  her  more 
searchingly. 

But  Jessie  lowered  her  eyes,  and  would  not  meet  his 
glance.  "  Oh,  I  have  watched  you,"  she  said,  "  and 
you  are  often  talking  with  Dennie  ;  you  talk  about  that 
girl,  lam  sure.  And  now  she  is  writing  to  you.  Don't 
you  think  you  have  done  enough  for  her,  without  going 
to  see  her?" 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  Lance,  his  energetic  mind  arrested 
by  a  sudden  discontent,  and  by  a  wonder  as  to  whether 
he  had  unconsciously  fallen  into  error.  "  But  surely 
you  don't  allow  yourself  to  be  troubled  about  it,  do 
you  ?" 


112  THUE. 

"  Why,  no,"  Jessie  answered.  "  It  would  be  foolish 
to  do  that.  Why  should  1  ?  Only,  it  may  be  that  you 
don't  think  what  you're  doing,  Ned.  She  is  not  our 
friend,  and  she  never  can  be.  1  have  agreed  that  you 
should  be  her  benefactor  if  you  want  to.  But  think  how 
it  might  seem  for  you  to  go  up  there  and  call  on  her. 
Isn't  it  too  much  ?"  . 

"  1  will  do  as  you  think  best,  my  dear,"  Lance 
assented. 

u  Thank  you,"  said  Jessie,  at  once  growing  radiant. 

They  passed  on  through  the  sun-flecked  gallery  of  the 
spicy  woods,  chatting  on  various  topics,  and  were  out- 
wardly quite  content.  But  Lance  could  not  banish  the 
idea  that  he  had  been  deprived  of  something  which  was 
his  right ;  and  Jessie,  for  her  part,  was  not  nearly  so 
serene  as  she  appeared  to  be.  A  subtle  intuition  had 
warned  her  that  Lance  was  wrapped  up  in  his  care  for 
Adela  to  an  extent  which  he  himself  was  not  able  to 
measure.  The  circumstance  weighed  upon  her  with  in- 
creasing force  ;  and  many  times  at  night  she  had  been 
awakened  by  her  own  tears,  only  to  fret  out  the  solitary 
hours  with  vain  questionings  and  attempts  at  reassur- 
ance. Her  trouble  seemed  needless  and  absurd  ;  but 
somehow  Adela  Keefe  came  flitting  across  her  dreams, 
and  even  darkened  her  waking  moments,  like  a  shadow 
revived  from  the  past,  that  had  the  power  to  blot  out  the 
vivid  and  sunny  present. 

That  evening  the  lovers  looked  over  some  old  minia- 
tures of  former  Floyds  and  of  the  Wyldes,  from  whom 
the  colonel  traced  his  inheritance.  In  every  one  of  the 
female  faces  Lance  instinctively  hunted  for  traits  that 
should  account  for  Jessie's  features  ;  but  he  could  not 
find  any.  Not  only  was  he  baffled  in  the  search,  but 
when  he  retired  to  rest  the  old  puzzle  as  to  the 


THE   LIKENESS.  113 

similiarity  between  Jessie's  face  and  Adela's  grew  upon 
him,  as  more  complicated  and  less  easy  to  shake  off  than 
ever. 

A  few  nights  afterward  his  hands  clasped  Jessie's 
cheeks  as  he  bade  her  farewell,  on  his  departure  for 
Beaufort,  where  he  was  to  take  a  coast- wise  steamer  for 
New  York. 

It  was  late  October.  There  was  a  chill  in  the  air. 
The  leaves  of  the  deciduous  trees  had  turned,  and  were 
already  falling.  The  pines  were  rusty  in  places,  their 
needles  showered  to  the  ground  in  great  numbers  ;  the 
snow-goose  had  already  been  heard  piping  in  the  air,  on 
its  southward  flight  ;  and  the  waves  of  the  Sound  and 
the  sea,  as  they  broke  upon  the  shore,  seemed  to  shiver 
with  a  knowledge  of  approaching  winter.  But  Jessie 
stood  with  her  lover  on  the  veranda,  in  the  darkness  ; 
and  her  face  rested  so  yieldingly  in  his  palms  that  Lance 
half  imagined  he  could  carry  it  away  with  him.  There 
in  the  night  it  was  like  a  picture  painted  long  ago  and 
dimmed  by  time,  yet  shining  out  through  the  obscurity 
with  its  youth  and  loveliness  and  passion  still  intact. 
No  ;  he  could  not  carry  it  bodily  away  with  him,  but 
he  could  take  it  in  his  heart  ;  and  so  he  did,  holding  it 
there  long  after  the  farewell  kiss  had  left  his  lips. 

But  after  he  reached  New  York,  and  during  the  long 
months  of  winter,  the  magic  of  fancy  played  strange 
tricks  with  the  image  he  had  brought  in  his  heart. 
Strive  as  he  would,  he  could  not  prevent  it  from  waver- 
ing and  flickering,  as  it  were,  and  occasionally  taking  on 
a  darker  hue,  so  that  he  seemed  at  times  to  be  contem- 
plating Adela,  instead  of  Jessie. 

One  of  the  first  things  he  did  was  to  hunt  up  some  old 
memoranda  in  which  the  tradition  concerning  Guy 
"Wharton  was  definitely  set  down.  This  cleared  up  his 


114  TRUE. 

recollection  of  it ;  and  his  next  act  was  to  write  to  a 
lawyer  of  his  acquaintance  in  England,  who  knew  some- 
thing about  the  Wharton  history,  asking  him  to  use  his 
best  endeavors  to  get  some  authentic  likeness  of  Gertrude 
Wylde. 

Unfolding  to  Hedson,  his  father's  old  partner,  the 
paper-mill  project,  and  finding  it  received  with  favor, 
he  next  exerted  himself  to  form  a  small  syndicate  for 
purchasing  and  reclaiming  the  swamp-lands,  since  that 
undertaking  would  require  more  capital  than  he  cared  to 
venture.  But  the  swamp  was  not  the  Treasury  of  the 
United  States,  nor  was  it  a  fantasy  of  such  vast  dimen- 
sions as  the  Panama  Canal  ;  so  the  syndicate  could  not 
be  formed.  For  capital,  despite  all  the  cant  about  its 
conservatism,  is  really  moved  by  extremes  :  it  is  allured 
either  by  a  dead  certainty  or  by  an  equally  defunct  im- 
possibility. Elbow  Crook  Swamp  was  a  something  be- 
tween the  two. 

"Wait  until  spring,"  Hedson  advised.  "  Then  you 
will  have  time  to  explore  ;  arid,  besides,  I  may  get  down 
there  myself  to  take  a  look  !" 

Hedson  enjoyed  the  harmless  pride  of  believing  that 
anything  at  which  Hedson  had  "  taken  a  look,"  and 
was  able  to  speak  well  of,  must  necessarily  glitter  like 
gold  to  his  brother  bondholders. 

This  affair  and  others  detained  Lance  a  long  time. 
His  mind  was  fixed  on  settling  in  North  Carolina,  at 
least  for  the  first  years  of  his  married  life,  and  he  was 
anxious  to  get  all  his  investments  in  good  order  before 
making  the  change.  At  Christmas  he  took  a  flying  trip 
to  Fairleigh  Park,  and  enjoyed  a  brief  season  of  jollity 
and  of  companionship  with  Jessie  ;  but  he  was  soon  back 
again  among  the  snowy  streets.  He  had  seen  Sylv,  but 
would  not  permit  himself  an  interview  with  Adela.  On 


THE   LIKENESS.  115 

his  return  Hedson  informed  him  that  he  was  about  to 
sail  for  England,  being  called  thither  by  business,  to  be 
absent  a  couple  of  months.  Lance  had  received  no  news 
from  his  legal  friend  in  London,  and  did  not  indeed  ex- 
pect anything  valuable  from  that  source  ;  the  records  of 
the  Surrey  Wyldes  were  doubtless  too  scattered  to  be 
traceable,  and  it  was  scarcely  possible  that  any  vestige  of 
Gertrude's  features  would  have  been  retained  among  the 
possessions  of  the  Whartons.  But,  not  wishing  to  forego 
any  chance,  he  petitioned  Hedson  to  see  the  solicitor  and 
co-operate  with  him.  The  acute  perception  of  the 
American  man  of  business  might  perhaps  aid  the  careful 
British  lawyer  in  getting  at  something,  even  in  so  senti- 
mental an  inquiry.  Lance  would  have  gone  himself,  so 
active  was  his  interest  in  the  question,  had  it  not  been 
for  his  reluctance  to  place  the  ocean  between  himself  and 
Jessie. 

Toward  the  end  of  February  Hedson  sent  him  a  half- 
page  letter,  which  ended  with  the  words  :  "  Think  I 
have  got  something  for  you."  Exasperating  silence 
followed  this  communication.  But,  in  latter  March, 
Hedson  landed  at  New  York,  and  brought  Lance  a 
drawing.  "  It's  from  an  old  picture,"  he  said.  "Had 
the  devil's  own  time  getting  it ;  but  I  bored  everybody 
concerned,  until  they  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer,  and 
had  to  help  me  ferret  it  out." 

"  And  you're  sure  this  was  Gertrude  "Wylde  ?"  asked 
Lance. 

"  Why,  my  boy,  you  don't  think  I'd  say  so  if  1  wasn't 
sure,  do  you  ?  Besides,  look  at  this  curious  monogram 
on  the  back.  It  seems  to  be  two  Gs  and  two  Ws  in- 
tertwined. You  see,  G.  W.  alone  would  stand  for  either 
Gertrude  Wylde  or  Guy  Wharton — a  singular  coinci- 
dence. The  fact  that  the  letters  are  repeated  seems  to 


11G  TRUE. 

show  that  Wharton  had  noticed  this  and  resolved  that  his 
initials  should  be  linked  with  hers,  which  were  the  same, 
so  that  in  that  way  at  least  they  might  be  united.  It's  a 
mark  of  identity.  But  why  do  you  ask  ?"  he  added. 
"  Is  there  anything  wrong  about  it  ?" 

Lance  was  excited,  evidently.  The  drawing  shook  in 
his  hand.  "  No,"  he  said  ;  "  nothing  wrong.  Quite 
the  contrary.  It's  exactly  like  her  in  some  ways." 

"  You  don't  look  crazy,  Lance  ;  but  how  can  you 
possibly  know  whether  it's  like  or  not  ?" 

' '  Oh,  I  mean — I  forgot ;  you  never  saw  Adela — Miss 
Jessie,  I  mean." 

"  No,"  said  Hedson.     "  I  take,  now.     Like  her,  eh  ?" 

Lance  nodded  silently.  To  him  the  picture  resembled 
Adela  more  than  Jessie. 


CHAPTER  XL 

LANCE   RETURNS. 

APRIL,  coming  to  thaw  the  ice  on  Northern  streams, 
and  to  mould  the  first  buds  that  started  out  timidly  as  a 
young  artist's  efforts  at  creation,  also  dissolved  the  spell 
of  solitude  which  had  so  long  encompassed  Jessie. 

Lance  Mras  ready  to  build  the  paper-mill,  and  had 
written  that  he  would  take  the  rail  southward  as  soon  as 
possible.  It  had  been  agreed  at  Christmas-time  that 
the  wedding  should  come  off  in  May  or  June.  Activity 
began  in  the  turpentine  plantation  ;  the  trees  were 
"  boxed"  and  "  tapped  ;"  the  sap  commenced  to  flow. 
The  air  grew  milder,  the  stars  shone  with  a  more  hazy 


LANCE   RETURNS.  117 

lustre  in  the  night  heavens,  and  birds  renewed  their 
notes  in  the  thickets  about  the  manor,  or  flew  with 
transient  greetings  over  the  lonely  land,  on  their  mis- 
sion of  heralding  the  return  of  spring  to  higher  latitudes. 
But  Jessie  could  not  rid  herself  of  the  mournfulness  and 
the  partial  lethargy  that  had  so  long  clung  to  her.  She 
knew  that  Lance  was  coming,  and  her  heart  throbbed 
the  more  warmly  :  she  waited  eagerly  to  feel  his  arms 
clasped  round  her.  Yet  a  lingering  fear  persuaded  her 
that  the  happiness  might  still  be  deferred  or,  in  the  end, 
frustrated. 

It  was  in  such  a  mood  that  she  leaned,  one  evening, 
on  the  railing  of  the  old  veranda,  vaguely  musing  and 
inclined  to  sadness.  There  was  no  certainty  as  to  the 
hour  of  Lance's  advent,  for  he  had  not  named  a  time, 
and  into  that  far-off  nook  where  she  lived  the  lightning 
of  the  telegraph  never  penetrated.  But  of  late  Jessie 
had  adopted  a  custom  of  straying  out  upon  the  veranda, 
as  if  she  expected  to  see  Lance  approaching. 

Suddenly  she  heard  the  click  and  crunch  of  unwonted 
wheels  upon  the  drive  near  the  house.  She  started  up 
and  listened,  in  a  tremor  of  incredulous  delight.  The 
sounds  drew  nearer  ;  presently  a  light  flashed  across  the 
moist  branches  of  the  shade-trees,  and  the  next  moment 
she  beheld  the  lanterns  of  a  carriage,  dimly  illuminating 
its  battered  varnish,  the  smoking  backs  of  two  horses  and 
the  muffled  torso  of  a  sable  driver.  Then  Lance's  young, 
energetic  face  appeared  in  the  square  of  the  carriage- 
door,  faintly  roseate  witli  the  light  from  the  house.  He 
was  fumbling  at  the  door-handle  before  the  wheela 
stopped  turning. 

The  sable  driver  subsided  completely  into  the  depths 
of  his  sableness,  as  the  two  figures  clasped  each  other  at 
the  top  of  the  steps. 


118  TRUE. 

"  All,  Ned,  I  have  waited  for  you  so  long  !" 

u  And  so  have  1  for  you,  dear." 

"  Do  you  know,  I  felt  almost  as  if  I  were  that  poor 
Gertrude,  waiting  and  waiting  still  ?" 

"You  are,  dearest — you  are  my  Gertrude  !" 

And  then  the  colonel,  always  discreet,  allowed  himself 
to  be  seen  in  the  hallway,  prepared  to  welcome  the 
wanderer. 

Lance  barely  restrained  himself  until  the  next  day 
before  seeking  an  opportunity  to  tell  Jessie  about  the 
drawing  which  Hedson  had  brought  from  England. 

"  You've  written  me  next  to  nothing  about  Adela 
Reefe,"  he  said  to  her.  "  But  I  suppose  you  have  kept 
on  taking  charge  of  her  letters  for  Dennie." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Jessie  ;  "he  brought  them  all  the  way 
up  to  me.  Poor  fellow  !' ' 

"  Why  do  you  call  him  that  ?" 

"  It  seems  so  severe  for  him,  having  her  stay  away 
at  such  a  distance,  and  for  so  long.  He's  dreadfully  in 
love  with  her." 

"  Yes,  I  know  he  is,"  Lance  confessed.  "  Those 
times  when  1  was  with  him  so  much,  and  you  hardly 
liked  it,  I  was  talking  with  him  about  her  and  trying  to 
console  him.  He  let  me  into  his  confidence,  and  told 
me  how  he  was  afraid  he  had  driven  her  from  him  and 
should  never  get  her  back.  But  Sylv  used  to  send  an 
encouraging  message,  now  and  then.  Has  he  sent  any 
more  ?" 

"  Sylv  has  hardly  written  at  all,"  said  Jessie. 

Lance  mused  aloud  :  "  That's  strange." 

"  Y"es,"  responded  his  sweetheart,  in  a  tone  as  if  she 
were  about  to  say  more  ;  but  she  did  not  go  on. 

At  this  point  Lance  thought  it  best  to  bring  forward 
his  little  surprise.  Excusing  himself,  he  went  to  his 


LANCE    RETURNS.  119 

room  and  came  back  with  the  drawing.  "  By  the  way," 
he  began,  reseating  himself,  "  I  wonder  if  Adela  has 
changed  much  in  looks,  under  the  influence  of  education. 
It  would  be  curious  to  see  her,  wouldn't  it  ?" 

"  I  saw  her,"  said  Jessie,  "  just  before  she  went  back, 
after  you  left  us,  at  Christmas." 

"Well,  then,  you  can  tell.  "What  do  you  think  of 
this  ?"  And  her  lover  produced  the  portrait. 

Jessie  stared  at  it  in  some  astonishment.  "  Where 
under  the  sun  did.  that  come  from  ?"  she  exclaimed. 
"  Was  it  done  for  you  ?" 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?"  he  repeated. 

"It  isn't  perfect,"  was  the  answer;  "but  still,  I 
should  know  it,  1  think.  Why,  Ned,  are  you  cheating 
me  ?  It  isn't  meant  for  Adela,  is  it  ?  You  naaghty 
boy,  I  could  almost  think  it  was  an  attempt  to  show  how 
I  shall  look  when  I'm  stouter  !  It's  a  joke." 

"Then  you  think  it's  .  like  you?"  he  inquired. 
"  Does  it  strike  you?" 

"  1  won't  say  another  word,  until  you  tell  me  what 
it  is." 

"  It  is  a  picture  of  Gertrude  Wylde,"  Lance  returned. 

Then  there  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Jessie  took  the 
drawing  and  looked  at  it  intently.  Her  voice  was  low, 
and  quivered  with  a  sort  of  frightened  tremor  when  she 
next  spoke.  "  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  at  first,  Ned  ? 
And  what  did  you  mean  by  speaking  as  if  it  were  Adela 
lleefe  ?  It  is  like  her  ;  and  it  is  like  me,  too.  Oh, 
what  is  this  secret  ?  What  is  the  meaning  of  it  all  ?" 

"  As  well  as  I  can  make  it  out,"  said  Lance,  "the 
meaning  is  that  Adela  is  a  direct  descendant  of  Gertrude 
Wylde,  and  a  kinswoman  of  yours.  The  only  thing 
remaining,  in  my  mind,  is  to  find  out  whether  her  father 
or  his  family  came  from  Croatan.  If  that  is  proved — " 


120  TRUE. 

"  And  if  that  is  proved,  wliat  then  ?" 

"  I  know  of  nothing  to  follow,  except  that  we  should 
recognize  her  as  a  relative." 

"  Never  !"  cried  Jessie.  "  This  is  a  mere  dream. 
It's  impossible  to  prove  her  descent  from  our  stock.  I 
can  have  nothing  to  do  with  her. ' ' 

Her  vehemence  was  such  that  another  man  might  have 
suspected  some  underlying  motive  of  feminine  jealousy. 
But  Lance  merely  laughed.  "  Oh,  there's  no  legal 
claim  involved,"  said  he,  lightly.  "  Of  course,  1  don't 
expect  that  anything  tremendous  is  going  to  happen, 
even  if  she  does  turn  out  to  be  of  your  blood.  But  sup- 
pose we  appoint  your  father  arbitrator  as  to  this  por- 
trait ?" 

Jessie  consented,  and  they  referred  the  picture  to 
Colonel  Floyd. 

"If  this  is  a  well-authenticated  reproduction,"  said 
the  colonel,  deploying  his  finest  hand-book  manner, 
"  the  appearances  would  seem  to  indicate  some  connec- 
tion. 'Pon  my  soul,  I  never  noticed  any  resemblance 
till  now  ;  but  while  the  similarity  to  our  Jessie  is  percep- 
tible, it  is  not  nearly  so  pronounced  as  the  likeness  to 
this  Adela  Reefe.  Is  it  possible  that  an  inherited  type 
of  countenance  should  last  so  long,  under  such  condi- 
tions ?  Yery  singular  ;  very  strange  !" 

He  did  not  evince  enthusiasm,  and  he  paced  the  room 


"  What  we  want  is  to  go  and  see  old  Mr.  Reefe," 
suggested  Lance,  ' '  and  ask  him  about  Croatan. ' ' 

The  colonel  fell  in  with  this  proposition  ;  and  on  the 
morrow  they  rode  down  to  Hunting  Quarters.  It  was 
not  an  easy  matter  to  draw  Reefe  into  conversation  ; 
but  they  at  last  succeeded  in  pinning  him  down  to  facts, 
and,  without  discovering  their  purpose,  he  assured  them 


LANCE   RETURNS.  121 

that,  to  the  best  of  his  knowledge,  his  predecessors  had 
lived  in  the  region  of  Croatan,  until  the  time  of  his 
father,  who  crossed  Pamlico  Sound  and  settled  near 
Hunting  Quarters.  To  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  he  also 
admitted  that  his  stock  probably  contained  Indian  blood; 
but  of  this  he  was  rather  proud  than  otherwise. 

"It  is  settled, "  said  Lance,  when  he  came  to  tell 
Jessie  the  result  of  the  inquiry.  "  There  can  be  no 
reasonable  doubt  now.  I  must  go  up  and  let  Adela  and 
Sylv  know  about  it  at  once." 

Jessie  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  fixed  her  mild 
gray  eyes  upon  him.  She  had  never  looked  more  capti- 
vating than  at  that  instant,  the  side-part  in  her  hair  giv- 
ing an  accent  of  dainty  self-reliance  to  her  whole  pose 
and  demeanor.  "  Let  me  ask  you  a  question,"  she  said. 

"Willingly." 

"  About  poor  Dennie.  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you, 
Ned,  that  you  may  be  doing  him  a  great  injury  by  send- 
ing Adela  off  in  this  way,  and  throwing  her  with  Sylv  ?" 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  answered  Lance,  somewhat 
nettled.  "  "Would  I  have  been  a  party  to  it  if  I  had 
thought  so  ?"  But  the  mention  of  Sylv  in  this  sort  of 
way  caused  him  an  inward  shudder.  If  there  were  any 
peril  of  Dennie's  losing  Adela,  why  should  it  be  Sylv 
who  should  win  her  ? 

"  I  think  you  are  helping  to  separate  them,"  Jessie 
continued,  "  and  you  ought  to  reflect,  and  stop.  Be- 
sides, why  should  you  go  on  so,  mixing  yourself  up  in 
her  affairs  ?' ' 

"  I'm  not.  I  ought  at  least  to  see  her  and  tell  her  my 
discovery. ' ' 

Jessie  suddenly  rose.  "  I  hate  that  woman  !"  she 
cried,  sharply.  And,  at  the  same  instant,  Lance  saM7  his 
engagement  ring  flashing  upon  her  linger. 


122  TKUE. 

"  You  shall  not  hate  her,"  he  declared,  with  passion. 
"  She  is  your  kinswoman — one  of  us.  It  isn't  right  that 
you  should  say  that,  and  1  won't  endure  it." 

"Never  mind  whether  you  will  endure  it  or  not," 
Jessie  retorted.  "  She  has  occupied  enough  of  your 
attention  already." 

"  My  dear  child,"  Lance  remonstrated,  "  it's  impossi- 
ble that  you  should  be  jealous  of  that  girl  !  But  what 
else  can  you  mean  ?  What  do  you  demand  ?" 

"  1  think  that  you  ought  to  just  drop  her,  from  this 
time  on,"  said  Jessie,  closing  her  lips  decisively. 

There  are  scientific  thinkers  who  tell  us  that  the  will 
is  not  a  cause,  but  merely  a  state  of  consciousness  result- 
ing from  previous  conditions  of  the  nerves  and  the 
emotions.  However  this  may  be,  Lance's  will  asserted 
itself  in  strong  opposition  to  Jessie's.  The  probability 
that  Adela  was  a  lineal  descendant  of  Gertrude  Wylde 
appealed  strongly  to  his  imagination.  Now  that  his 
theory  seemed  so  well  established,  he  was  resolved  to 
have  her  kinship  acknowledged  ;  and,  further,  he  ex- 
perienced a  strong  attraction  toward  her,  the  stress  of 
which  he  did  not  fully  comprehend.  He  himself  repre- 
sented the  man  who  had  loved  Gertrude,  who  had  vainly 
searched  for  and  lost  her.  Was  it  not  fair  that  he  should 
have  some  hand  in  the  destiny  of  the  girl  thus  reclaimed, 
after  the  lapse  of  centuries,  from  the  oblivion  which  had 
overtaken  Gertrude's  life  ? 

"  I  will  not  drop  her,"  he  said,  unyieldingly.  "  And, 
what's  more,  Jessie,  I  am  going  to  see  her,  and  shall 
stand  by  her." 


SYLV'S   TKOUBLE.  123 

CHAPTER  XII. 

SYLV'S  TROUBLE. 

EXACTLY  what  was  to  be  the  issue  of  Lance's  sentiment 
respecting  Adela,  it  would  have  been  hard  to  say.  'No 
fatal  breach  had  as  jet  been  made  in  his  relations  with 
Jessie  ;  yet  they  parted,  after  the  difference  which  I 
have  just  detailed,  with  a  coldness  that  promised  ill ; 
and,  for  the  first  time,  Lance  met  the  issue  that  had  for 
weeks  past  unobtrusively  put  itself  in  his  way.  If  Jessie 
would  persist  in  being  so  narrow,  so  unsympathetic,  what 
was  to  come  ?  And  if  any  trouble  from  this  source 
should  divide  them,  what  was  there  left  to  him  ?  Fac- 
ing this  alternative,  Lance  was  forced  to  perceive  that 
the  interest  which  he  had  allowed  himself  to  feel  in 
Adela  had,  unawares,  grown  into  a  dangerous  emotion. 
In  one  way  it  seemed  absurd.  In  another,  it  was 
tragical.  Did  he  actually,  in  view  of  the  rupture  which 
now  seemed  likely  to  occur  between  himself  and  Jessie, 
contemplate  such  a  possibility  as  giving  his  life  up  to 
Adela  ?  If  he  were  to  do  that,  the  question  of  treachery 
to  his  humble  friend,  Dennis  De  Yine,  would  be  involved. 
Nevertheless,  some  unseen  power  seemed  to  propel  him 
toward  an  erratic  solution  of  this  sort.  He  wondered 
whether  at  last  the  yearning  of  his  ancestor,  long  ago, 
was  fated  to  meet  fulfilment  by  his  own  union  with  the 
latest  offspring  of  Gertrude  Wylde.  No  !  he  would  not 
think  of  it  :  he  refused  to  surrender  himself  to  such 
fantasies.  And  still  he  could  not  escape  their  importun- 
ing. 

He  was  involved   in   a  struggle.     He  did  not  know 


124  TRUE. 

what  to  make  of  it  ;  but  he  resolved  to  maintain  his  own 
dignity,  first,  by  going  to  see  Adela,  and  then,  after  that, 
everything  concerning  Jessie  and  himself  might  be 
righted.  Meanwhile  he  kept  one  idea  firmly  before  him, 
which  was,  to  remain  true  to  Jessie  so  long  as  she  would 
let  him  do  so  without  sacrificing  Adela. 

But  before  he  had  time  to  carry  out  his  determination 
of  seeing  Adela,  an  unlooked-for  incident  occurred, 
which  altered  the  situation  materially. 

The  last  bell  for  the  day  had  sounded  at  the  ( '  acade- 
my" where  Adela  pursued  her  studies,  or  rather  was 
pursued  by  them,  for  they  followed  her  steps  from 
morning  to  night  in  a  race  with  which  it  was  hard  to 
keep  even,  notwithstanding  her  prowess.  The  bell 
signified  freedom  for  a  brief  period.  When  it  sounded 
she  was  allowed  to  go  out  for  a  walk,  the  usual  disci- 
pline of  the  school  having  been  relaxed  in  her  favor,  to 
admit  of  her  taking  her  recreation  in  Sylv's  company. 
Sylv  was  duly  accredited  as  Dennie's  ambassador,  to 
look  after  Adela's  welfare  ;  hence  it  was  considered  very 
proper  that  he  should  see  her  every  day.  In  this  way 
he  had  taken  a  great  many  walks  with  her. 

"When  the  bell  rang,  therefore,  he  met  her  at  the  gate 
of  the  garden  surrounding  the  academy,  and  they  strolled 
away  together.  Had  Lance  seen  them  at  that  moment, 
he  would  have  been  surprised  by  the  noticeable  change 
which  had  come  over  them  both.  Adela  had  now  been 
at  school  some  ten  months — nearly  a  year— and  her 
steady  application,  with  the  loss  of  that  out-door  life  to 
which  she  had  been  accustomed,  had  subdued  the  color 
in  her  cheeks,  though  it  had  not  made  them  pale.  The 
delicate  brown  tinge  was  always  there.  But  the  stiff 
black  hair  that  had  formerly  blown  so  carelessly  about 
her  head  was  demurely  combed  and  orderly,  now,  and  a 


SYLV'S   TROUBLE.  lxJ5 

serene,  womanly  thoughtfulness  had  somehow  drifted 
into  the  lines  of  her  face,  making  its  wild  beauty  sweeter. 

Sylv,  too,  had  acquired  a  more  polished  air.  It  was 
not  a  gawky  polish.  His  clothes  were  very  plain,  but 
he  appeared  at  ease  in  them  ;  and  although  his  tangled 
beard  was  reduced  to  comparative  trimness,  it  hinted 
nothing  of  the  incipient  dandy.  On  the  whole,  they 
were  a  very  serious  and  simple  pair,  who  would  have 
looked  extremely  "  countrified"  in  Richmond,  and  still 
more  so  in  New  York.  But  they  had  altered  very  much 
since  the  days  on  the  shore. 

Had  Lance  seen  them  then,  he  would  have  been 
surprised — and  perhaps  displeased — by  another  thing. 
This  was,  that  as  they  moved  down  the  road  leading 
away  from  the  town,  they  looked  so  like  a  pair  of  lovers. 

Ah,  vrhile  they  had  been  growing  so  neat  and  orderly 
on  the  surface,  and  had  come  to  show  marks  of  the 
educational  mould,  had  they  possibly  undergone  another 
change  of  an  opposite  kind,  within  ?  Were  their  hearts 
as  well  regulated,  as  calm,  as  their  dress  and  their  faces  ? 

Through  the  long  period  of  their  sojourn  together,  they 
had  lived  upon  hopes,  interests,  ambitions  common  to 
both.  Adela  had  been  fired  with  zeal  for  her  new  occu- 
pation ;  they  had  talked  over  their  daily  successes  or  re- 
verses every  afternoon  ;  and  though  I  have  not  said 
much  about  Sylv's  natural  refinement,  and  his  quiet, 
persuasive  quality,  these  two  things — combined  with  con- 
stant association — had  exercised  a  great  influence  upon 
Adela.  Imperceptibly  she  had  grown  into  a  life  which 
belonged  to  them  alone,  apart  from  every  one  else. 

"  How  did  you  get  along  to-day  ?"  asked  Sylv. 

"  All  right,"  said  Adela.  "  But  the  algebra  was 
hard.  It  seems  as  if  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  but 
squares  and  roots  and  coefficients.  It  appears  to  me  like 


12p  TRUE. 

I'll  have  to  extract  tlie  square  root  of  my  head  right 
soon  ;  and  if  I  do,  there  won't  be  anything  left." 

"  You're  getting  tired,  I  reckon,"  Sylv  suggested. 
"  Maybe  you  ought  not  to  work  so  much.  How  would 
it  suit  you,  Deely,  to  go  home  for  a  few  days  and 
rest  ?" 

"  Oh,  vacation's  coming  in  a  few  weeks, "  she  answered, 
wearily.  "  It  ain't  that,  Sylv.  I  ain't  tired  with  the 
work  ;  but  it's  because  my  life  seems  so  queer,  and  I 
don't  know  what  1  want.  1  don't  want  to  stay  here,  or 
to  go  home.  I'm  afraid  I'll  never  be  happy  any  more." 

They  were  now  in  a  quiet  spot  outside  of  the  town. 
Some  willows  grew  beside  the  road,  which  was  here 
carried  over  a  small  bridge  that  covered  the  gurgling 
flow  of  a  brook.  Sylv  stopped  short,  and  eyed  her 
meditatively. 

"Not  happy  ?"  he  questioned.  "  Why  not,  Deely  ? 
Wouldn't  you  be  if  you  were  with  Dennie  again  ?" 

Adela  paused,  too.  "  I  can't  tell,"  she  said.  "  I 
don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  me,  but  1  don't 
seem  to  be  satisfied  with  anything,  Sylv.  1  never  can 
go  back  to  what  I  was,  but  I  don't  see  that  1  can  go 
forward,  either." 

"But  Dennie  loves  you  just  the  same,"  said  Sylv, 
rather  falteringly. 

The  girl  clasped  her  hands  and  gazed  absently  in  front 
of  her.  "  1  know  he  does,"  she  said,  in  an  inert  way. 
"  I  know  it  well  enough." 

"  And  you  know  he  has  been  trying  to  learn  to  read, 
just  to  please  you,  and  so  as  to  keep  up  with  you  as  well 
as  he  can." 

"Yes."  But  still  her  face  did  not  lighten.  The 
gathering  sadness  deepened  upon  it,  if  anything.  "  Oh, 
why  did  1  come  here  !"  she  suddenly  cried,  despair- 


SYLV'S  TROUBLE.  127 

ingly.  u  If  Mr.  Lance  had  not  sent  me  !  Ah,  what 
was  the  use  ?" 

Sylv  regarded  her  compassionately,  but  he  was  himself 
undergoing  an  anguish  that  it  seemed  impossible  to  with- 
stand. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  soothingly,  "  let's  go  down  yonder 
among  the  trees  and  talk  about  it.  We'll  see  if  there 
isn't  some  way  of  making  you  happy.  I  reckon  the  time 
has  come  for  a  change,  and  we  ought  to  see  what  is 
needed." 

She  yielded,  as  though  he  were  entitled  to  lead  her. 
Taking  his  hand,  she  walked  with  him  down  on  to  the 
young  grass  at  the  side  of  the  highway,  and  in  among 
the  trees  alongside  the  "run."  In  the  retired  nook 
that  they  came  to  they  seated  themselves,  while  the 
spring  breeze  murmured  through  the  light  leaves  above 
them,  unsuspicious  of  any  woe  in  the  minds  of  these  two 
young  persons. 

"  I  was  angry  with  Dennie,"  said  Adela,  speaking 
low,  "and  that  was  why  I  left  him  to  come  here.  But 
he  has  been  so  good,  and  so  patient." 

"Yes,  that  he  has!"  Sylv  corroborated,  fervently. 
"  Why  don't  you  go  back  to  him  ?" 

The  gaze  which  Sylv  fixed  upon  her,  in  asking  this 
question,  was  very  unlike  that  of  an  impartial  and 
philosophic  adviser.  His  eyes  burned  with  a  rapacious 
though  restrained  fire.  Yet  his  tone  was  composed. 

Adela  broke  into  moaning.  "  Why  do  you  ask  me 
that?"  she  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  don't  you  know  how  hard 
it  is  to  go  back  ?  Do  you  think  it  can  ever  be  the  same  ? 
I  don't  want  that  kind  of  life  anymore  :  1  am  for  some- 
thing different  now.  You  see,  all  this  studying  and 
thinking  and  reading  has  given  me  a  new  idea,  and 
there's  no  one  to  take  a  share  in  it.  When  1  go  back 


128  TRUE. 

and  marry  Dennie  that  part  of  me  will  be  alone. 
What  am  I  to  do  ;  oh,  what  am  I  to  do  ?" 

Her  distress  was  so  acute  that  she  gave  way  to  tears, 
which  she  helplessly  tried  ,to  press  back  with  a  hand  at 
her  eyes. 

"Don't  cry,  Deely,"  said  Sylv,  taking  her  other 
hand.  "You're  tired  out,  and  you're  troubling  your- 
self, but  you  don't  need  to.  By  and  by  you'll  be 
happy  ;  never  fear  !" 

Adela  clung  to  his  hand  instinctively.  "  You're  a 
kind  fellow,  Sylv,"  said  she,  ceasing  to  sob.  "  I  know 
you  wish  me  well.  But  it's  all  over  with  me.  I  ought 
not  to  think  of  anything  but  Dennie.  If  I  can  make 
him  happy,  why— I  ought — to  be  satisfied."  But  tho 
stifled  tone  in  which  she  uttered  the  words  showed  how 
far  she  fell  short  of  that  duty. 

Sylv  longed  to  speak  more  tenderly  to  her.  The 
touch  of  her  trusting  hand  in  his  was  maddening.  He 
would  have  laid  down  his  life,  at  that  instant,  to  comfort; 
her  ;  and  if  he  was  ready  to  sacrifice  his  own,  what 
mattered  the  life  and  happiness  of  any  other  ?  But 
there  was  only  one  way  in  which  he  felt  sure  that  he 
could  secure  lasting  comfort  to  her,  so  far  as  one  man 
might ;  and  that  way  he  dared  not  propose.  Why  had 
he  not  foreseen  this  difficulty  and  this  peril  in  time  to 
evade  them  ?  He  had  imagined  that  his  whole  life 
depended  on  books,  and  here  he  found  that  it  was  noth- 
ing as  compared  with  a  woman.  He  had  indulged  in 
the  tranquil  belief  that  he  was  a  disinterested  student  ; 
but  now  he  awoke  to  the  fact  that  he  was  a  reckless 
lover  ! 

"  Deely,"  he  exclaimed,  rising,  but  still  keeping  her 
hand  in  his,  "  if  you  don't  love  Dennie  enough  to  go 
back  to  him,  you  must  not  do  it !" 


STLY'S  TROUBLE.  129 

"  And  break  his  heart  ?"  she  asked,  looking  up  at  him 
with  an  effort  at  reproach. 

"  1  speak  to  you  as  his  brother,"  answered  Sylv — "  his 
brother,  whom  he  sent  here  of  his  own  accord  to  watch 
over  you  ;  and  I  say  that  it  would  be  wrong.  You 
would  not  be  happy  yourself,  and  you  would  find  it  im- 
possible to  make  him  happy." 

Adela  drew  her  hand  away.  "  But  I  have  promised 
him  !  And  I  will  keep  my  promise." 

As  she  spoke  she  rose  erect  :  he  could  hear  her  close 
her  teeth  with  a  grating  sound. 

"  I  don't  intend  to  argue  about  it,"  he  said.  "  You 
are  free  to  settle  everything  your  own  way.  It  ap- 
peared to  me  like  I  must  tell  you  my  opinion.  That's 
the  end  of  it,  Deely."  He  paused.  "I  got  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Lance  ;  says  he's  got  back,  and  is  coming  up  to 
see  you.  But  /am  going  away  to-morrow." 

Adela  started  violently.  "  You  going  away  !"  Then 
she  trembled  toward  him  and  laid  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders.  "  Oh  no,  no  !  Don't  leave  me  now,  Sylv. 
Don't  go  away  !" 

"I  must,"  he  replied.  "I've  got  through.  I've 
done  all -I  can.  1  must  go  back  to  work  for  Mr.  Lance." 

Adela's  hands  still  rested  on  his  arms.  Pie  could 
hardly  move  them  otherwise  than  to  enfold  and  sustain 
her.  Unable  to  support  herself,  she  drooped  and  sank 
]  toward  him  for  an  instant. 

"  Dear — dear — sister,"  he  almost  groaned,  "  don't 
despair  !  Don't  give  way  !  1  wish  I  could  save  you 
from  suffering." 

She  recovered  herself  and  stood  upright  before  him, 
looking  into  his  eyes.  She  trembled,  and  he  longed  to 
embrace  her  once  more,  holding  her  to  his  heart  for  as 
long  as  he  should  live.  But  neither  of  them  made  any 


130  TRUE. 

movement  toward  such  a  renewal  of  her  dependence 
upon  him.  Steadily,  yet  with  a  kind  of  doubt  and  fear, 
they  gazed  at  one  another  ;  and  the  whole  story  of  their 
hearts  was  made  clear.  But  not  one  word  of  passion 
was  uttered. 

"  I  must  leave — must  leave  to-morrow,"  Sylv  re- 
peated, as  they  started  simultaneously  to  go  back  to  the 
school  ;  "  and  I  think  I  will  send  Dennie  up  here." 
Instead  of  advancing  this  proposition  with  the  courage 
he  wanted  to  show,  he  made  it  sound  like  the  knell  of 
all  their  hopes.  Nerving  himself,  he  added  :  "  Shall  I 
tell  him  you've  forgiven  him  ?" 

This  time,  by  a  prodigious  effort,  he  spoke  bravely  ; 
yet  his  eyes,  without  his  knowledge,  seemed  to  beg  her 
to  come  to  the  aid  of  his  failing  fortitude. 

"  Shall  I  tell  him  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  that  you're  ready  to  go  with  him  now  ?' '  The 
faltering  look  had  vanished.  A  white,  still  light  of 
triumph  rested  on  his  paling  face. 

"  Yes,"  said  Adela  again,  with  trembling  lips. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

LANCE  AND  ADELA. 

SYLV  was  on  the  point  of  beginning  his  journey,  when 
Lance  walked  into  his  boarding-place  with  a  hearty 
salutation. 

"  Isn't  this  very  sudden  ?"  he  asked,  with  pronounced 
astonishment  at  Sylv's  new  move. 


LANCE   AHD   ADELA.  131 

"It  looks  so  to  you,"  said  the  young  man.  "But 
I've  been  thinking  it  over  a  long  time.  It  isn't  best  for 
me  to  stay  here." 

Lance  saw  that  something  was  held  in  reserve,  but 
could  not  conjecture  what.  "  Suit  yourself,  Sylv,"  he 
returned.  "  If  you're  satisfied,  I  ought  to  be." 

"  Besides,"  said  Sylv,  with  the  air  of  having  already 
given  one  reason,  "  I  ought  to  do  some  of  that  work  I 
promised  for  you." 

"  It  would  be  an  advantage  to  begin  exploring  the 
swamp  before  warm  weather  comes  on,"  Lance  agreed. 

"  "Well,  sir,  I'm  ready  to  go  at  it  right  straight  off," 
said  the  other. 

There  was  a  disproportionate  grimness  in  his  tone  and 
manner,  Lance  imagined.  The  declaration  had  ap- 
parently cost  him  an  effort. 

"  Lord  bless  me,  Sylv,"  he  exclaimed,  abruptly,  "  how 
thin  and  pale  you've  grown  !  I  didn't  fairly  notice  it 
until  this  moment.  It  evidently  won't  do  you  any  harm 
to  have  a  change." 

"  JSTo,  sir.     I  have  not  been  feeling  well." 

"  All  right.  "Wait  till  the  afternoon  train,  and  I'll  go 
back  to  Beaufort  with  you.  I  only  want  to  see  Adela 
for  a  while.  "Will  you  come  along  ?" 

Pie  did  not  really  want  Sylv  to  accompany  him  ;  and 
perhaps  this  was  manifest  in  his  way  of  speaking.  Yet 
he  was  somewhat  surprised  when  the  young  man,  turn- 
ing aside  and  pretending  to  adjust  some  of  the  articles  in 
the  forlorn  miniature  trunk  he  had  been  packing,  said  : 
"  !N"o,  thank  you,  Mr.  Lance.  I  said  good-by  to  her 
last  night." 

"It's  just  as  well,  that  way,"  said  Lance,  nervously. 
"  I  have  something  important  to  tell  her,  and  it  will  be 
better  to  see  her  alone, " 


132  TRUE. 

Sylv  straightened  up,  and  glanced  at  him  almost  fierce- 
ly. A  suspicion  occurred  to  him.  "  Something  impor- 
tant ?"  he  asked.  But  he  did  not  dare  to  demand  par- 
ticulars. 

Nor  did  it  reassure  him  much,  either,  to  have  Lance 
answer,  "  Yes  ;  I'll  tell  you  about  it  afterward." 

For  his  part,  Lance,  in  noticing  Sylv's  abstracted  be- 
havior, recalled  what  Jessie  had  said  as  to  throwing  the 
young  fellow  so  much  with  Adela,  and  wondered 
whether  there  was  any  confirmation  of  her  fear  in  the 
constraint  which  had  overtaken  his  2)rotfyc>  But  he 
was  so  anxious  to  see  Adela,  that  he  did  not  stop  to  re- 
flect on  that  point  more  than  a  moment. 

Ushered  by  the  -matronly  principal  of  the  academy 
into  its  scrupulously  dusted  but  threadbare  parlor,  he 
awaited  the  girl's  advent  with  a  good  deal  of  trepidation. 
The  window-blinds  were  closed,  and  the  interior  was  per- 
vaded by  a  mock  twilight.  When  Adela  at  last  made 
her  appearance,  her  figure,  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
room,  looked  so  dim  and  uncertain  that  Lance  was 
strongly  reminded  of  the  first  time  he  ever  saw  her — the 
time  that  she  rose  out  of  the  earth,  as  it  were,  and  again 
crumbled  back  into  it. 

"  Miss  Keefe  !"  he  said,  scarcely  above  a  murmur. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Lance  !  Sylv  told  me  you  were  coming." 
And  she  approached  him  through  the  dimness  of  the 
room,  groping,  one  might  say. 

They  shook  hands  formally,  and  to  Lance's  distraught 
fancy  it  seemed  as  if  her  fingers  withdrew  themselves 
with  the  recoil  of  absolute  dislike  from  the  touch  of  his 
own. 

"  You're  not  glad  to  see  me,  I'm  afraid,"  he  began, 
boldly. 

"  Oh  yes — yes  I  am.     "What  makes  you  think  so  T 


LANCE    AND    ADELA.  133 

"  I  can  liardlj  tell,  but  I  think  I  should  know  if  you 
were.  It  is  so  dark  here  1  can  barely  see  you.  Shall  I 
open  a  shutter  ?"  He  made  a  movement  to  do  so. 

"It  is  light  enough  forme,"  Adela  answered;  and 
lie  at  once  desisted  from  his  purpose.  "  Won't  you  sit 
down  ?"  she  asked. 

He  accepted  the  invitation. 

They  conversed  for  a  few  moments  about  her  studies 
and  about  what  lie  himself  had  been  doing  since  they 
last  met.  But  at  length  he  said  :  "  You  never  would 
be  able  to  guess,  Adela,  why  I  have  come  to  see  you  to- 
day. You  told  me  a  very  interesting  story  once — do 
you  remember  ? — about  your  people.  That  was  a  legend  ; 
but  now  1  have  a  true  story  to  tell  you,  which  is  con- 
nected with  yours.  Would  you  like  to  hear  it  ?" 

"  I  always  like  stories  better  than  anything,"  said  the 
girl.  "  Do  tell  it  to  me." 

Thereupon  Lance  narrated  the  tale  with  which  we  are 
familiar,  adding  the  details  of  the  picture,  the  first  clew 
which  he  had  caught  in  her  resemblance  to  Jessie,  and 
the  extraordinary  coincidence  of  the  old  rhyme  from 
Wharton  Hall.  Adela  listed  intently,  without  interpos- 
ing a  syllable  ;  but  he  could  hear  her  breath  coming  and 
going,  and  occasionally  she  sighed.  She  was  seated  in  a 
chair  near  his  own  ;  but,  though  his  eyes  were  growing 
used  to  the  gloom  of  the  apartment,  he  felt  her  presence 
more  by  the  warm  irradiation  of  her  vitality  through  the 
air  than  by  actual  vision.  From  time  to  time  there  was 
an  audible  flurry  of  light  feet  and  flitting  skirts  in  the 
passageway  without,  or  in  the  rooms  above,  indicating 
the  movement  of  young  women  from  one  point  to 
another  of  the  scanty  scholastic  edifice  ;  and  once  a 
desk-bell  rang  punctiliously  from  a  distance.  But  other- 
wise they  were  uninterrupted.  As  Lance  proceeded  with 


134  TRUE. 

his  story,  the  dimness  of  the  light  and  the  random 
brushing  of  the  breeze  against  the  shutters  aided  a 
species  of  hallucination  that  laid  hold  of  him.  While  he 
retraced  the  mazes  and  the  by-paths  of  the  tradition  that 
led  back  so  far  into  the  forests  and  the  obscurity  of  an 
earlier  epoch,  the  gloom  of  the  wilderness  itself  seemed 
to  surround  him  ;  the  leaves  of  an  unknown  forest-land 
muttered  and  rustled  in  his  ears  ;  he  felt  like  an  ex- 
plorer ;  he  was  making  his  way,  he  could  fancy,  toward 
the  goal  of  his  long  striving  and  his  harassed  desire. 
Should  he  not  meet,  at  the  end  of  his  wanderings,  the 
object  of  his  search  ? 

When  he  had  finished  the  story  he  said  :  "  Y'ou  have 
Indian  blood  in  your  veins,  Adela. " 

Her  voice  permeated  the  dusk  slowly  and  hesitatingly: 
11  Yes.  But  how  do  you  know  ?" 

"  I  have  seen  your  father,  and  he  has  told  me.'* 
Lanee  rose  and  stepped  toward  the  window.  "  Ger- 
trude Wylde  was  your  ancestress,"  he  declared,  "and 
she  was  the  same  woman  as  Ewayea  in  your  legend.  It 
is  I  who  have  discovered  this,  and  I  have  brought  you, 
at  last,  out  of  all  that  mystery  !" 

Flinging  the  shutters  open  he  stood  there,  look- 
ing toward  her.  Adela  at  the  same  instant  left  her 
seat  and  placed  herself  before  him.  Then,  for  the  first 
time,  he  could  see  the  change  that  had  crept  over  her 
features. 

"  Good  God  I"  he  cried.     "  What  has  happened  ?" 

Adela  spread  her  hands  out  in  timid  deprecation. 
"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  You  are  so  much  more — you  have  grown  so  like 
Jessie  since  I  saw  you, ' '  Lance  returned,  wellnigh  gasp- 
ing. "  If  it  were  not  for  that  darker  tint — " 

"Mr.    Lance,"   she  interrupted,    "what  can  you  be 


LANCE  AND   ADELA.  135 

thinking  of  ?  Why  do  you  talk  so  excitedly,  and  why 
did  you  come  here  to  tell  me  this  ?" 

"Because,"  he  said,  "I  have  been  intensely  in- 
terested in  the  problem.  1  believe  you  belong  to  the 
line  of  Gertrude  Wylde.  If  you  do,  you  represent  the 
woman  whom  my  ancestor  loved,  and  you  are  closely 
related  to  Jessie  Floyd.  Do  you  suppose  it  makes  any 
difference  to  me  that  Indians  came  into  that  line  ?  No  ; 
1  see  in  you  the  lineal  descendant  of  Gertrude,  and  a 
kinswoman  of  the  Floyds.  I  wish  to  have  it  clearly 
understood  that  you  and  they  are  of  one  family.  You 
must  take  the  place  that  belongs  to  you." 

"  What  place  ?"  Adela  sighed.  "  Can  you  tell  what 
place  mine  is  ?" 

"  Of  course  1  can.  Haven't  I  said  what  I  thought  ?" 
But  while  Lance  uttered  these  words,  he  noticed  how 
sad  and  wan  she  looked,  and  he  also  felt  the  difficulty  of 
bringing  her  within  the  circle  of  life  to  which  he  be- 
longed. 

"  You  have  made  a  great  mistake,"  she  replied.  "  I 
am  only  Adela  Reefe,  and  I  cannot  be  anything  else. 
Did  Sylv  tell  you  ?  I  am  going  away  from  here.  I 
shall  not  stay  any  longer,  for  I  promised  to  be  Dennie's 
wife,  and  I  am  going  to  marry  him  as  soon  as  he  comes 
for  me." 

"To  be  Dennie's  wife  !"  exclaimed  Lance,  instinc- 
tively treating  the  idea  as  though  he  had  not  heard  of 
it  before.  u  Yes  ;  yes  ;  I  suppose  you  are  to  be.  But 
why  should  that  prevent  your  being  one  of  us  ?  You 
will  be  a  kinswoman,  a  cousin,  just  the  same." 

Adela  gathered  herself  up,  and  spoke  with  resolution. 
"  I  don't  know  if  you  are  right,"  she  said,  "  but  anj 
way,  Mr.  Lance,  if  I  am  a  kinswoman  and  a  cousin,  da 
you  think  Miss  Jessie  will  want  to  have  me  for  one  ?" 


136  TRUE. 

The  best  that  Lance  could  do  was  to  parry  this  direct 
thrust.  "  If  you  are  so,"  he  answered,  "  what  differ- 
ence can  her  wish  make  ?" 

"  1  will  tell  you,  easy  enough,"  Adela  retorted, 
proudly.  "It  is  just  that  I  won't  have  anything  to  do 
with  people  who  don't  want  me  for  one  of  them.  If  I 
had  ever  supposed  that  coming  up  here  to  school  would 
make  it  seem  as  if  I  wanted  to  do  that,  I  wouldn't  have 
come.  Oh,  I  didn't  know  all  this  when  1  came  !  No, 
no  1  And  I'm  sorry  1  did  it.  I  tried  to  be  grateful  to 
you,  Mr.  Lance,  and  I  do  thank  you  for  your  good 
meaning  ;  but  I'm  sorry  I  came." 

"  Adela,"  he  said,  rather  coldly,  "  1  can't  let  you  talk 
in  this  way.  You  are  proud  and  angry,  and  don't  know 
what  you're  saying.  Kemember  that,  whatever  happens, 
1  stand  by  you." 

"  I  don't  want  any  one  to  stand  by  me,"  she  returned. 
"  1  am  all  alone,  and  1  will  stay  so.  Suppose  you  had 
never  come  here,  Mr.  Lance  ;  who  would  have  guessed 
that  1  had  anything  to  do  with  that  old  English  family  ? 
I  could  not  have  guessed  it  myself,  even.  I  know 
you've  tried  to  help  me,  and  now  you  want  to  make 
something  different  of  me  from  what  I  always  was  be- 
fore. But  I'm  going  back  to  marry  Dennie,  and  the 
best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  leave  me  where  you  found 
me,  and  forget  all  about  me.  I  shall  just  be  Dennie's 
wife  ;  that's  all.  1  don't  ask  to  be  anything  else." 

It  may  seem  to  you  unreal  that  Lance  should  have  been 
so  much  exercised  regarding  Adela's  happiness  and  her 
future,  especially  since  he  was  bound  to  Jessie  Floyd  by 
the  most  sacred  promises.  Unreal  it  is,  I  grant,  to  peo- 
ple who  live  by  the  tinkle  of  the  horse-car,  the  tick  of 
the  clock,  and  the  reading  of  the  newspaper.  But  this 
individual,  impracticable  man— so  like  many  other  men 


LANCK  AND   ADELA.  137 

who,  in  dissimilar  circumstances,  conceive  themselves  to 
be  prodigiously  practical — was  bent  upon  an  idea.  And 
he  was  determined  to  carry  out  his  idea.  He  cared  more 
for  his  theory  than  he  did  for  himself  or  for  any  one  be- 
sides. It  was  his  ambition  to  be  impartial — to  secure  the 
recognition  of  all  rights  which  he  thought  were  in  need 
of  vindication.  And  so  far  did  he  carry  that  desire,  that 
he  was  really  somewhat  bewildered  by  it  ;  in  conse- 
quence whereof  he  held  himself  ready,  at  this  especial 
moment,  to  sacrifice  one  great  obligation  to  a  lesser 
obligation. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  be  satisfied  with  this  result,"  he 
said.  "  1  am  determined  that  it  shall  not  be  in  vain  that 
I  have  sought  you  out  and  found  you.  Listen  to  me, 
Adela  !  It  is  a  question  of  justice— in  fact,  of  simple 
humanity — and  I'm  bound  to  have  justice  done.  You 
may  go  back  to  Hunting  Quarters,  if  you  like,  any  day, 
and  marry  Dennie  ;  but  you  ought  not  to  ask  to  be 
dropped  out  of  our  lives.  1  wish  to  see  you  put  where 
you  belong.  If  you  have  changed  your  mind,  and  do 
not  want  to  marry  Dennie,  only  tell  me  so.  Your 
happiness  is  at  stake,  and  it  shall  be  preserved  at  all 
hazards." 

"  How  can  you  preserve  it  better  than  I  can  ?"  Adela 
demanded. 

Lance  delayed  his  answer,  inwardly  trembling.  It  may 
be  that  we  ought  not  to  inquire  into  the  wild  and  erratic 
impulses  that  assailed  him  at  that  instant  ;  but,  amid 
their  dizzying  influence,  he  held  fast  to  the  ideal  of 
honesty  on  all  sides. 

11  Very  likely  I  can't,"  he  replied,  calmly.  "  But  1 
wish  to  say  that,  if  anything  should  go  wrong,  if  any 
trouble  should  come  to  you,  1  may  be  counted  on  as  your 
friend — no  matter  who  opposes." 


138  TRUE. 

Adela  melted  at  once  into  frank  dependence.  "  Oh, 
Mr.  Lance,"  she  said,  "  I  have  sorrows,  like  other  peo- 
ple, and  I  don't  know  what  they  will  bring  at  last ;  so  if 
you  will  help  me  when  I  need  help,  I  shall  be  glad  ! 
But  please  don't  think  about  me  now  ;  only  let  me  go — 
let  me  go  !" 

And  with  this  sorry  climax  the  interview  ended,  Lance 
retiring  with  an  inexplicable  sense  of  defeated  endeavor. 
In  some  way,  which  he  was  not  able  to  analyze  as  yet,  his 
dream  had  been  exploded.  The  unravelling  of  the 
mystery  of  Gertrude  Wylde  had  been  to  him  a  romance 
of  the  most  fascinating  kind  ;  but  now  that  the  romance 
had  culminated,  no  one  seemed  to  know  what  to  do  with 
it.  Apparently  he  had  followed  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  when 
he  expected  any  good  to  attend  his  success  in  ferreting 
out  Adela's  identity  ;  for  it  had  put  him  at  odds  with 
Jessie,  and  it  brought  no  pleasure  to  Adela  herself. 


CHAPTEK  X1Y. 

DENNIE'S  TROUBLE. 

WITH  heavy  hearts  both  Lance  and  Sylv  accomplished 
their  journey  to  Beaufort  late  that  afternoon  ;  and  on 
the  way  Lance  explained  to  his  companion  the  new  light 
in  which  Adela  must  be  regarded. 

Sylv,  however,  said  little,  and  appeared  anxious  to 
reach  home,  where  he  could  consult  with  Denriie. 

He  found  his  brother  busily  engaged  in  completing  a 
ditch  across  the  neck  of  the  headland,  which  he  had 


DENKIE'S  TROUBLE.  139 

finally,  in  deference  to  the  wishes  of  Aunty  Losh,  under- 
taken to  dig,  to  the  end  that  her  live-stock  might  be  kept 
from  straying  over  to  the  mainland.  "  I  am  fearsome  o' 
the  tides,"  said  Dennie,  as  he  had  said  long  ago  ;  "but 
aunty  wants  this  hyar  for  to  be  done,  and  so  I  am  doin' 
on  it." 

The  docile,  plodding  industry  of  his  brother  smote  upon 
Sylv  with  a  singular  reproach.  He  could  not  throw  off 
the  conviction  that  he  himself  had  been  essentially  idle  in 
his  devotion  to  book-learning,  while  Dennie  had  remained 
so  faithful  to  the  dull  duties  at  home. 

"  Dennie,' '  he  said,  "  I  got  some  good  news  for  you. " 

"Ye  mean  that  ar  ?"  queried  Dennie,  halting  in  his 
toil,  with  his  shovel  in  the  loose  ground.  "  I  ain't  had 
no  good  news  for  a  long  sight,  Sylv.  What  mout  it  be  ?" 

"  Deely's  coming  back  to  you." 

Dennie  stood  stock  still  and  wiped  the  sweat  from  his 
brow.  Then  he  touched  his  grimy  knuckles  to  his  eye- 
lids ;  but,  without  betraying  emotion  in  any  other  way, 
except  by  the  softening  of  his  voice,  he  said  :  "  I'm  glad 
on't,  Sylv.  Ar'  she  a-comin'  back  because  she  want  to  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  oh  yes  !  There  couldn't  be  any  other  reason, 
could  there,  Dennie  ?" 

"Well,  I  wam't  right  sure,"  said  Dennie.  "No  ;  I 
reckon  they  aren't  no  other  reason. ' '  Seizing  the  shovel, 
he  made  a  few  more  plunges  with  it  into  the  soil.  ' '  Well, 
I'm  right  glad  on't,  Sylv.  When  ar'  she  comin'  ?" 

' '  Now,  I'll  tell  you  how  it  is, ' '  Sylv  returned,  assuming 
an  expository  manner.  u  Deely  thinks  you've  been  a 
right  good  boy,  and  she  allows  she  was  impatient  with 
you.  But,  then,  you  were  impatient  too.  She's  made 
up  her  mind  to  let  go  the  rest  of  her  school  term,  and  she's 
waiting  for  you  now  up  at  the  city.  All  you've  got  to 
do  is  to  go  there  and  get  her." 


140  TRUE. 

Dennie  abandoned  his  work  for  the  moment,  and  gazed 
at  his  brother  affectionately.  "  Thank  ye  kindly,  Sylv. 
Ye  been  a  good  brother  to  me.  Oh,  it  don't  'pear  true  ! 
I  don't  make  out  how  it's  so  ;  but  I  waited  and  sarved 
kind  o'patient,  Sylv,  and  all  to  once  it  comes  out  squar'. 
Deely's  been  fair  to  me,  old  man,  and  so  ha'  you  been. 
Wall,  it's more'n  I  desarve. " 

With  the  guilty  knowledge  of  a  hidden  love  for  Adela 
in  his  heart,  Sylv  would  rather  have  faced  the  threatening 
muzzle  of  his  brother's  gun,  as  it  had  once  been  pointed 
at  him,  than  to  have  stood  up  before  the  glance  of  trust 
and  affection  which  Dennie  now  directed  toward  him. 
But,  thank  Heaven,  his  conscience  was  clean.  He  had  not 
betrayed  the  trust.  He  had  preserved  his  honor,  and  had 
left  Adela  free. 

11  Don't  think  about  what  you  deserve,"  he  said,  "  but 
just  you  go  and  do  what  she  expects  you  to.  Tou  go  up 
there  and  fetch  her  back." 

"  Did  she  ask  ye  to  tell  me  that,  Sylv  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Then  I'll  do  it !  But  I  ar'  got  to  dig  this  hyar  ditch 
first  off,  don't  you  see  I  have?  'Cause  I  tole  aunty  I 
would,  and  she'd  be  a  heap  sight  put  out  if  I  didn't. 
But  ye'll  go  up  to  the  city  with  me,  won't  ye,  Sylv  ? 
I'd  feel  lonesome  and  quar'  ef  ye  didn't." 

"I'm  right  sorry,  Dennie  ;  but  I  can't.  I've  got  to 
do  some  work  for  Mr,  Lance,  and  I  ought  not  to  go 
back." 

However,  when  Dennie  was  ready  to  take  his  departure 
Sylv  came  to  him  with  a  sealed  letter.  "  I  can't  go  with 
you,  Dennie,"  he  repeated  ;  "  but  there's  a  few  words 
I  wanted  to  say  to  Deely,  and  you  might  as  well  carry 
them,  I  thought." 

Dennie  conscientiously  dumped  the  missive  into  his 


DENNIE'S  TROUBLE.  141 

hat  ;  and,  with  a  last  joyous  whisk  of  his  red  beard,  took 
leave  of  his  brother. 

His  impatience  to  see  Adela  caused  him  to  spurn  the 
faithful  dug-out  as  a  means  of  travel,  and  he  went  by  rail. 

In  the  long  months  of  separation  from  his  sweetheart 
he  had  succeeded  in  carrying  out  a  great  self -improve- 
ment. The  hope  of  making  himself  worthy  to  recover 
her  was  the  mainstay  of  his  gallant  persistence  in  this 
work,  and  it  had  wrought  a  wonderful  effect.  He  was  still 
the  same  Dennie — his  temperament  could  not  be  remod- 
elled— but  from  being  irascible,  hot-headed,  untrust- 
worthy, he  had  come  to  exercise  a  self-control  that  made 
him  seem  uncommonly  gentle.  What  he  gained  in  that 
direction  he  had  to  hold  by  untiring  vigilance  and  firm 
will ;  but  a  succession  of  victories  convinced  him  that 
now,  when  the  reward  was  held  out  to  him,  he  could 
prove  his  fitness  to  receive  it. 

A  driving  rain  poured  down  upon  North  Carolina  as 
he  left  the  coast.  The  sea  showed  its  white  teeth  at 
Hatteras  and  all  along  the  sandy  spits  and  islands  that 
fringe  that  shore.  Every  one  said  that  still  uglier  weather 
was  likely  to  come  soon.  But  to  Dennie  the  drenching 
showers  and  the  hurly-burly  of  the  winds  only  enhanced 
the  gladness  in  his  heart.  He  basked  in  the  delicious  glow 
of  cosiness  which  children  feel  when  snugly  housed  from 
pelting  storms  that  they  can  watch  at  ease.  The  slow- 
,  paced  cars  seemed  to  him  to  glide  ahead  with  wonderful 
swiftness — his  own  happy  anticipation  lent  speed  to  the 
wheels — and  the  humming  rails  echoed  and  rang  again 
with  one  continual  song  of  hope,  hope,  hope. 

How  many  fond,  encouraging  things  he  would  say  to 
Adela  !  How  bright  he  would  make  the  prospect  for  her  ! 
He  would  show  her,  beyond  question,  that  she  need  never 
undergo  any  trials  or  troubles  which  he  could  prevent. 


142  TKUE. 

It  was  not  so  easy  to  do  all  this,  at  first,  as  lie  had  im- 
agined it  would  be.  On  meeting,  they  were  both  rather 
quiet.  Dennie  took  her  hand  bashfully  :  he  discovered 
all  at  once  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a  superior  being. 
The  muscles  of  his  right  arm,  also,  appeared  to  succumb 
to  a  peculiar  disorder,  and  would  not  act  when  he  wanted 
to  throw  that  arm  around  her  waist.  Good  Lord  !  was 
he  afraid  ?  Had  he  been  afraid  to  clasp  her  in  his  arm  a 
year  before  ?  But  gradually  this  paralytic  attack  wore 
itself  out :  he  sat  down  beside  her,  and  presently  his  right 
hand  was  visible  to  his  own  eyes,  resting  easily  at  a  point 
on  the  right  side  of  her  belt. 

"  I'm  glad  to  be  with  ye  again,  Deely,"  he  said,  care- 
fully eliminating  as  much  of  the  gruffness  as  he  could 
from  his  strong  out-of-doors  voice. 

But  the  hearty  gruff  ness  that  remained  was,  somehow, 
very  agreeable  to  Adela.  "  Dear  old  Dennie,"  she  said, 
in  a  gentle,  musing  way,  as  if  she  were  speaking  of  him 
to  some  third  person. 

"  And  ye're  glad,  too,  be  ye,  Deely  ?"  he  asked,  gaz- 
ing at  her  indulgently,  but  with  some  vestiges  of  anxious 
doubt. 

"Yes,  Dennie,  I'm  glad  to  be  with  you  ;  you're  so 
good  now.  And  I  like  to  see  you  happy." 

"  That's  a  puss,"  said  the  big  fellow,  but  instantly  felt 
astonishment  at  his  own  familiarity.  Finding,  too,  that 
he  was  instinctively  patting  her  with  his  hand,  he  prompt- 
ly stopped,  because  it  struck  him  that  his  hand  was  too 
rough,  and  he  might  hurt  or  crush  her.  He  drew  it  softly 
away  to  a  more  normal  position.  ' '  Why,  they  tell  me, ' ' 
he  resumed,  (( that  ye're  a  great  lady  now — a  sort  o' 
princess,  or  su'thin'  that  way.  I  didn't  know  for  sure 
ye'd  want  to  see  me  or  have  me  hangin'  round  ye  no 
more." 


DENNIE'S  TROUBLE.  143 

And  then  lie  laughed  at  the  deceptiveness  and  the 
wild  humor  of  his  own  speech. 

•  "  Oh,  Dennie,"  she  implored,  "  don't  talk  about  that ! 
What  difference  does  it  make  ?" 

"Ye  needn't  bat  yer  eyes,"  he  replied.  "I  ain't 
'shamed  on  it,  if  ye  ain't.  Why  Sylv,  he  said  how  ye 
war  just  as  good  as  Miss  Jessie,  'cause  ye  war  born  away 
back  out'n  the  same  family  ;  leastways,  some  one  else  did 
the  bornin'  for  ye,  them  ar  times.  But  I — well,  I  allays 
thought  ye  war  a  heap  sight  better'n  Miss  Jessie  or  any 
one  else." 

"  I  know  that,  Dennie.  You  always  loved  me  true. 
Oh,  it  was  wrong  for  me  to  come  away  from  you  so  !" 

Adela  leaned  her  head  upon  him,  and  began  to  sob 
slightly.  This  proceeding  was  so  totally  unlocked  for, 
that  Dennie  was  amazed. 

11  Thar,  thar, "  he  said,  "  ye'  d  oughtn't  for  to  cry  when 
I  come  back  to  ye.  No  ;  ye  had  the  right  on't,  Deely. 
I  warn't  fit,  then,  and  I  wouldn't  ha'  been  a  fip  better  ef 
ye  hadn't  ha'  left  me  be.  It  ar'  all  right,  I  tell  ye.  But 
fust,  when  I  saw  ye  just  now,  thinks  1,  ye've  changed  so, 
and  ye  look  so  sort  o'  ironed  up  all  careful,  ye  won't  care 
nothin'  for  a  old  rough  boy  like  Dennie  no  more.  But 
if  ye' re  goin'  to  cry,  Deely,  why,  I  want  for  to  stop  ye  ; 
and  I  do  think  it  war  all  right,  your  leavin'  me." 

"  Oh  no,  no,"  she  reaffirmed,  still  weeping.  "  I  did 
you  a  great  wrong,  Dennie  !" 

Dennie 's  face  became  apprehensive  for  a  moment ;  but 
that  look  quickly  dissolved,  and  he  permitted  himself  a 
subdued  laugh.  "  It  ar'  enough  to  make  a  man  laugh," 
he  said,  in  excuse,  "  to  think  o'  my  forgivin'  ye  ;  but  if 
ye  feel  ye  done  wrong,  why,  I'll  say  I  forgive  ye,  Deely. 
I  d6  forgive  ye,  right  free." 

She  had  made  the  only  confession  she  could.     Indeed, 


144  TRUE. 

what  was  there  to  reveal,  except  that  in  her  long  com- 
panionship with  Sylv  she  had  learned  to  lore  him,  before 
she  comprehended  what  was  happening,  and  that  she  had 
honestly,  at  a  fearful  cost,  stifled  that  love  so  far  as 
might  be,  in  order  to  remain  true  to  the  man  she  had 
promised  to  wed  ?  But  to  tell  this  would  in  itself  be  to 
dishonor  her  vow. 

She  looked  up  to  Dennie  with  streaming  eyes,  and  her 
hand  sought  his.  "  Thank  you,  thank  you  !"  she  mur- 
mured. "I  have  suffered  a  great  deal  here,  Dennie — 
away  from  you.  I  know  you  have  suffered  too.  But 
you  are  generous  and  kind  ;  and  now  I  hope  we  can  for- 
get all  the  pain." 

Dennie,  in  listening  to  her,  was  strongly  impressed 
with  the  feeling  that  he  was  hearing  something  read  from 
a  book,  so  sharp  was  the  contrast  between  her  utterance 
and  his.  But  the  contents  of  the  supposititious  book 
were  very  soothing  and  acceptable.  He  turned  quickly 
to  her,  and  for  the  first  time  since  his  arrival  they  em- 
braced each  other  with  thorough  self-forgetfulness. 

"But,  Deely,"  he  said,  "  I  ain't  like  ye  ar'.  I  ain't 
got  1'arnin'  the  way  ye  have  now.  Don't  ye  reckon  that 
ar'll  disapp'int  ye  ?" 

"  No  ;  not  a  bit,"  she  answered,  warmly  ;  "  you'll  be 
kind  and  good  to  me,  Dennie,  and  I  will  be  a  good  wife 
to  you.  All  I  want  is  for  you  to  take  me  away  from 
here.  Take  me  home  !" 

There  was  an  almost  desperate  energy  in  her  voice. 
The  truth  was,  Dennie's  presence  acted  upon  her  as  a  re- 
storative, and  awakened  many  memories  of  the  simple 
and  happier  time  when  they  had  played  together  and 
grown  up  together  and  carried  on  their  courtship  by  the 
shore.  Despite  her  love  for  Sylv — or  perhaps  in  conse- 
quence of  it— she  threw  herself  upon  Dennie's  protection 


DENNIE'S  TROUBLE.  145 

with  an  eagerness  she  would  not  have  believed  possible 
until  she  met  him  face  to  face.  His  big  figure,  his  glow- 
ing cheeks,  his  heavy  hands  and  rough  accent — all  brought 
to  her  a  whiff  of  the  salt  air  in  which  she  had  been  born 
and  bred.  Her  secret  misery  was  dulled  by  his  trusting 
companionship  ;  she  was  lulled  into  reveries  of  some  ex- 
istence of  comparative  peace,  in  which  she  would  be  able 
to  fulfil  her  ideal  of  duty  and  find  her  recompense  in  so 
doing. 

"  Take  ye  home,  dear  girl  !  Why,  that's  what  I'm 
wantin'  to  do,"  he  rejoined,  tenderly.  And,  fired  by 
the  thought,  he  went  on  to  tell  her  where  they  would 
make  the  home  ;  how  Sylv  and  he  were  going  to  take 
part  in  Lance's  wide-reaching  plans  ;  how  he  would  per- 
haps have  something  to  do  with  the  paper-mill  or  the 
market  gardens  that  were  to  replace  the  swamp  ;  and  how 
happy  she  and  he  could  be. 

Adela  entered  eagerly  into  all  these  glowing  partic- 
ulars. A  new  life  opened  before  her,  which  she  believed 
would  be  beautified  with  all  sorts  of  unexpected  happi- 
ness ;  and  she  was  filled  with  thanksgiving  because  she 
had  clung  resolutely  to  her  plighted  troth. 

"We'll  go  to-morrow  !"  cried  Dennie,  with  enthusi- 
asm. * '  D'ye  think  ye  can  make  out  to  be  ready,  Deely  ?' ' 

"  I  could  be  ready  to-day,"  she  replied,  "if  there's  a 
train." 

Dennie,  wonderful  to  relate,  had  provided  himself  with 
a  time-table,  though  the  "  summer  arrangement"  of  the 
railroad  to  Beaufort  was  not  complicated.  He  resorted 
to  his  hat  to  find  it.  But  as  he  plucked  the  printed 
slip  from  its  place  in  the  inner  band  of  the  hat  his  eye 
lighted  on  Sylv's  letter.  Until  that  moment  he  had  en- 
tirely forgotten  that  he  was  a  usurper  of  the  postal  func- 
tion. 


146  TRUE. 

"Dog-gone  it  !"  he  exclaimed,  "I  come  mighty  near 
not  givin'  you  this.  It's  from  Sylv." 

Adela  stripped  away  the  yellow  envelope  with  startled 
haste  ;  and  on  a  poor  sheet  of  blue-ruled  note-paper  she 
read  these  words  : 


DEELY  :  I  did  not  mean  to  write  anything, 
but  the  feeling  comes  over  me  that  I  ought  to  say  good-by 
to  you  and  Dennie.  I  have  decided  that  my  life  here  has 
been  a  failure,  and  I  am  going  away.  I  shall  not  come 
back.  Mr.  Lance  thinks  I  have  gone  to  do  something  for 
him,  but  it  is  no  use  to  look  for  me,  because  no  one 
can  find  me. 

"I  love  you  and  Dennie,  and  want  you  to  be  happy  to- 
gether. Hemember  that,  and  do  not  mourn  over  me  any 
more  than  if  I  had  died.  You  know  we  cannot  help 
dying.  If  I  could  do  any  good  by  staying  I  would  ;  but 
I  am  certain  it  is  better  for  me  to  go. 

"  Tell  Dennie  I  trust  him  to  make  you  happy.  I  be- 
lieve in  him  and  love  him.  Good-by.  SYLV.  " 

Dennie  awaited  the  result  of  her  reading  in  dumb  ex- 
pectancy, and  saw  the  look  of  horror  in  her  face,  but  could 
not  account  for  it. 

Adela  shrieked  aloud.  "  Oh,  he  is  dead  !"  she  cried. 
"  He  meant  to  kill  himself  !  Help,  Dennie,  help  !  "What 
are  we  to  do  ?" 

She  stretched  out  her  hand,  with  the  letter  in  it  ;  but 
Dennie  only  shook  his  head,  in  helpless  bewilderment. 

"I  can't  read  it,"  he  said,  piteously.  "  I  don't  know 
enough,  Deely.  That  ar  writin'  —  Deely,  what  ails  ye  ? 
What's  he  said  there  ?" 

The  mistress  of  the  academy  came  running  in,  alarmed 
by  the  girl's  outcry. 


DENNIE'S  TROUBLE.  147 

"  Sylv  is  going  to  kill  himself,"  Adela  repeated. 
11  He  says  lie's  going  away  ;  but  1  know — oh,  1  know 
what  he  means  !  See,  Dennie  ;  that's  what  he  says." 
And  again  she  held  the  letter  toward  him,  distractedly. 
' i  He  says  good-by  to  you  and  me.  Can,  we  go  to-day  ? 
Is  there  any  train  ?" 

Dennie  offered  the  mistress  his  time-table,  which  to  him 
was  merely  an  illegible  curiosity — a  memento  of  his  un- 
precedented journey. 

Without  looking  at  it,  however,  she  drew  out  her  watch 
with  a  sharp  tug  at  the  silken  guard  that  held  it.  "  Yes, 
you  have  time,"  she  announced,  "  if  you  hurry.  I'll 
bring  your  things,  Miss  Reefe." 

She  disappeared. 

"Tell  me 'bout  it,  Deely,"  said  Dennie,  fumbling 
hopelessly  with  the  letter,  which  he  had  now  taken  into 
his  sunburned  hands. 

Adela  set  foot  upon  her  agitation,  and  rapidly  read  the 
letter  over  to  him. 

Dennie  appeared  to  be  stunned.  "  Suicide  ?"  he  said. 
"  What  for?  Hev  you  got  any  right  for  to  think  that 
ar?"  His  tone  was  indignant.  "  What  call  ar'  he  got  to 
kill  hisself  ?  Sylv— our  Sylv,  I  tell  ye.  My  brother  !" 

"  Because  he  hadn't  anything  left  to  live  for  !  He  was 
miserable,"  Adela  answered,  with  vengeful  emphasis. 
"  It  is  Mr.  Lance  did  it — sending  me  here.  No  !  1  did  it, 
because  I  would  not  tell  him  what  I  felt.  I  wanted  to  be 
true  to  you. " 

The  truth  burst  upon  Dennie  like  a  flood,  and  his  fierce 
temper  rose  to  meet  it.  For  an  instant  a  blinding  light 
flashed  dazzlingly  by  across  everything  that  surrounded 
him;  he  grew  giddy,  and  Adela  had  no  more  important 
existence  in  his  eyes  than  the  table  and  the  chairs  around 
him,  or  the  lifeless  walls  of  the  room.  His  single  desiro 


148  TRUE. 

was,  in  his  rage,  to  destroy  something,  to  create  havoc 
and  ruin,  answering  to  the  ruin  of  his  own  hopes.  But  the 
next  instant  he  felt  as  if  he  were  among  the  pines,  with 
his  gun  aimed  at  Sylv  ;  and  the  thought  that  Sylv  at  this 
very  instant  might  be  lying  dead  somewhere  brought  a 
ghastly  picture  before  his  eyes.  The  whirl  of  maddening 
light  passed  away,  and  he  stood  humiliated,  mournful, 
calm,  motionless. 

"Then  it's  true  at  last  !"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "  You 
loved  that  man — my  brother — and  he  loved  you." 

For  a  moment  Adela  could  not  speak.  Her  lips 
moved,  without  sound.  At  last  she  answered  :  "  Yes. 
But  I  never  told  him,  and  he  said  nothing  to  me.  'Twas 
only  after  we  came  here." 

Dennie  replied  in  a  voice  that  made  her  think  of  the 
muffled  breaking  of  the  waves  on  the  distant  coast.  "  1 
was  fearsome  of  it,  Deely,  but  I  swore  I  wouldn't  think 
on't.  It  ar'  best  I  know  it  now.  We'll  go  and  look  for 
— for  Sylv.  If  he  ar'  alive,  I'll  bring  you  to  him." 


CHAPTER  XY. 

ELBOW-CROOK  SWAMP. 

WITHOUT  notice  Hedson  had  appeared  on  the  scene  ; 
he  was  hospitably  received  by  Colonel  Floyd,  and  asked 
Lance  to  show  him  over  the  ground  in  which  the  as  yet 
unborn  syndicate  was  expected  to  invest. 

Accompanied  by  Sylv  they  were  occupied  in  a  general 
survey  of  the  swamp,  from  the  outside,  at  the  time  when 


ELBOW-CROOK   SWAMP.  149 

Dennie  was  talking  with  Adela  in  Newbern.  "  Yes, 
yes  ;  fine  country  for  a  cemetery,"  said  the  hale  but  scepti- 
cal Hedson.  ' '  To  come  down  to  bed-rock  on  this  thing, ' ' 
he  added,  turning  to  Lance,  "the  expense  of  paring  off 
the  natural  growth  and  filling  in  here  would  be  enor- 
mous, to  say  nothing  of  what  the  lawyers  call  '  supple- 
mentary proceedings.'  You  know  what  that  means, 
don't  you,  Mr.  De  Vine?"  Here  he  included  Sylv 
in  the  favored  list  of  those  for  whom  his  remarks  were 
intended. 

The  upshot  of  the  exploratory  drive  was  that  Hedson 
gave  a  semi-adverse  judgment ;  notwithstanding  which 
he  began  to  consult  with  himself  inaudibly  as  to  the  best 
mode  of  going  to  work  to  buy  some  of  the  waste  land  in 
question  on  his  private  account. 

Sylv  showed  an  unmistakble  eagerness  to  begin  his 
task  of  investigating  the  interior  of  the  swamp,  and  be- 
fore he  parted  from  Lance  for  the  day  he  took  him 
aside  and  told  him  that  he  should  be  in  the  swamp  by 
daylight  of  the  next  morning. 

Hedson  and  the  colonel  found  plenty  to  talk  about 
that  evening,  and  Lance  was  left  alone  with  Jessie. 

The  conversation  that  passed  between  these  two  was 
somewhat  ruffled.  Jessie  found  fault  with  her  lover  be- 
cause he  had  gone  to  Newbern  against  her  will,  and  Lance 
assured  her  that  his  eccentric  interest  in  Adela  Reefe  was 
now  appeased  :  he  had  done  all  that  he  wished  to,  in  dis- 
closing to  her  the  probable  relationship  with  the  Floyds, 
and  would  henceforth  leave  her  affairs,  for  the  most  part, 
alone.  But  Jessie  was  not  content  with  that  declaration. 

"If  she  comes  back  here  to  live,  as  you  say  she  is 
about  to  do,"  she  asked,  "  what  do  you  expect  ?" 

"Simply  that  we  shall  receive  her  as  one  of  us,"  said 
Lance.  "  I  have  befriended  her  and  the  De  Yine  boys, 


150  TRUE. 

and  I  intend  to  keep  on.  They  are  inevitably  a  part  of 
my  system  and  my  plans  now. " 

"  Then  you  are  going  to  overturn  everything,"  Jessie 
asserted. 

In  short,  silly  though  it  was,  they  quarrelled  more 
seriously  than  they  had  done  hitherto. 

Jessie,  there  is  reason  to  believe,  was  very  unhappy  in 
consequence,  and  passed  a  wretched  night.  And  Lance 
scarcely  slept  a  wink.  He  lay  restless  on  his  bed,  turning 
and  tossing,  until  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  veered  this 
way  or  that  with  the  varying  gusts  of  the  tempestuous 
wind  that  hourly  grew  more  turbulent,  until  Fairleigh 
Manor  shook  in  its  angry  clutch. 

"How  the  wind  roars!"  he  growled  aloud,  starting 
from  a  half  doze  ;  and  after  vainly  waiting  a  while  longer 
for  repose  he  got  up,  dressed  himself,  and  went  out. 

The  earliest  gray  of  daybreak  was  visible  in  the  east- 
ern sky,  but  the  atmosphere  was  so  surcharged  with  storm 
that  he  fancied  he  could  hear  the  seething  of  the  angry 
ocean  in  the  blasts  that  whirled  around  him,  though  he 
was  not  within  ten  miles  of  the  open  sea. 

An  hour  after  he  had  left  the  manor  a  worn-out  wagon 
from  Beaufort  drew  up  in  front  of  the  door,  and  Dennie 
alighted.  Dennie  raised  such  a  clamor  at  the  door  that 
at  last  the  inmates  began  to  arouse  themselves.  Jessie 
was  the  first  to  respond  to  the  summons.  She  gathered 
hastily  from  Dennie  the  object  of  his  untimely  call,  and 
learned  that  Adela  was  with  him  in  the  wagon.  They 
were  looking  for  Sylv ;  had  been  detained  at  Beaufort, 
and  were  only  just  arrived  ;  so  they  had  come  at  once  to 
the  manor  to  ask  Lance  if  he  knew  anything  of  Sylv's 
whereabouts,  since  Lance  had  been  mentioned  in  the 
letter  of  farewell.  But,  a  servant  being  sent  to  Lance's 
room,  it  was  discovered  that  lie  was.  not  at  home  ;  and 


ELBOW-CKOOK   SWAMP.  151 

Dennie  forthwith  started  to  drive  to  the  shore,  hoping 
that  he  might  get  some  clew  from  Aunty  Losh. 

Imagine  Jessie's  wonder  and  anxiety  when  she  found 
that  Lance  had  disappeared  !  Her  conscience  had  already 
stung  her  for  the  absurdity  of  her  quarrel  with  him  ;  but 
now  that  he  was  out  of  reach,  and  that  Dennie  had  brought 
to  her  the  apprehension  of  something  tragic  impending 
over  Sylvester,  her  excitement  rose  to  fever-height. 
Daylight  broadened  while  she  sat  up,  nervous  and  specu- 
lating, amid  the  noises  of  the  disturbed  household  ;  and 
the  wind -storm  increased  in  violence  every  moment, 
keeping  pace  with  her  terror  and  her  perplexity.  Filled 
with  forebodings,  and  finding  it  impossible  to  remain  in- 
active, she  completed  her  toilet,  had  one  of  the  stable- 
hands  called,  and,  leaving  word  for  her  father  that  she 
had  gone  to  the  headland  in  quest  of  Lance,  she  started 
to  drive  through  the  plantations. 

Hunting  Quarters  being  the  nearer  point,  Dennie 
dropped  the  reins  when  the  jaded  team  which  he  drove 
brought  him  to  a  fork  in  the  roadway,  and  told  Adela  to 
drive  to  her  father's  house.  He  himself  set  out  on  a  full 
run  for  Aunty  Losh's,  and  never  paused  until  he  reached 
the  cabin-door. 

Aunty  Losh  reported  that  Sylv  had  risen  before  dawn 
and  gone  toward  Elbow-Crook  Swamp,  saying  that  he 
had  something  to  do  there  for  Mr.  Lance. 

The  storm  raged  more  furiously  than  ever.  The  ocean 
could  be  heard  thundering  at  the  outer  bulwarks  of  the 
coast  irresistibly.  The  great  billows  were  actually  at  that 
moment  surging  far  beyond  their  wonted  limits  and  shak- 
ing the  very  roots  of  the  low  hills  out  by  Hatteras, 
though  Dennie  could  not  see  them  there.  He  could  guess 
the  tumult  that  was  in  progress  at  Ocracoke  and  lower  ; 
the  air  was  full  of  mist  and  flying  spray ;  the  sea  was 


152  TRUE. 

literally  pulling  down  the  outer  sand-heaps,  eating  into 
them,  doing  its  best  to  tear  open  a  new  inlet ;  and  the 
waters  of  the  Sound  were  furrowed,  foaming,  and  uncon- 
trollable. Yet  Dennie  could  not  delay.  He  began  at 
once  to  retrace  his  course,  heading  for  the  swamp,  for 
he  had  several  miles  to  go.  It  was  only  for  an  instant, 
as  he  crossed  the  planks  over  the  ditch  he  had  so  recently 
made,  that  he  observed  how  the  water  from  the  Sound 
was  boiling  through  the  artificial  channel. 

He  went  on  in  headlong  haste. 

Before  he  had  been  twenty  minutes  out  of  sight  Jessie 
drove  up  to  within  a  few  rods  of  the  ditch,  and  sped  across 
the  intervening  space.  Her  coachman  warned  her  not 
to  go  thither.  "  You'll  be  blown  a\vay,  missy,"  he  cried, 
despairingly.  "  Dis  yer  am  a  hurricane,  and  de  hosses 
can't  stan'  it  much  longer." 

But,  if  she  heard  him,  she  paid  no  attention.  In  a  few 
moments  she  had  crossed  the  narrow  planks,  which,  bed- 
ded though  they  were  in  the  earth,  trembled  at  the  assaults 
of  the  wind.  She  had  no  more  than  vanished  among  the 
trees  around  the  cabin  when  the  tide,  rushing  in  renewed 
volumes  through  the  ditch,  swept  away  the  frail  bridge 
as  if  it  had  been  straw.  The  banks  began  to  crumble  ; 
and  the  coachman,  barely  able  to  guide  his  horses,  whip- 
ped up  and  drove  away  as  well  as  he  could,  in  search  of 
aid. 

Dennie  got  over  the  ground  with  marvellous  rapidity, 
taking  the  shortest  line  for  the  swamp.  The  wind  was 
blowing  inland,  and  bore  him  along  with  it  ;  so,  when  he 
had  gone  two  thirds  of  the  way,  it  seemed  to  him  that  but 
a  few  minutes  had  elapsed.  He  was  on  the  regular  road, 
now  ;  but  it  was  providential,  nevertheless,  that  he  should 
encounter  in  that  spot  another  man.  He  hailed  him 
loudly,  amid  the  howling  of  the  wind  j  and  the  man, 


ELBOW-CROOK  SWAMP.  153 

turning  round,  proved  to  be  Lance  !  He,  too,  was  on 
his  way  to  the  swamp.  Going  forth  aimlessly,  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  join  Sylv,  if  he  could  find  him,  in 
the  proposed  expedition.  Alarmed  by  the  prodigious 
force  of  the  tempest,  however,  he  would  have  turned 
back  and  endeavored  to  regain  the  manor,  if  he  had  not 
met  Dennie. 

A  few  hasty  words  gave  him  knowledge  of  the  threat- 
ened catastrophe  ;  and  the  two  men  joined  forces  in  the 
forlorn  attempt  to  find  Sylv  and  prevent  his  self-destruc- 
tion. 

Dennie  knew  where  a  boat  could  be  had  to  launch  upon 
the  devious  river  that  ran  through  the  swamp  ;  and, 
fortunately,  it  turned  out  that  Sylv  had  not  taken  this 
boat  for  himself. 

Together  they  entered  the  gloomy  jungle.  They  not 
only  plunged  into  the  desperate  undertaking  of  trying  to 
save  the  life  of  another  man,  who  had  resorted  to  this 
convenient  cover  with  the  evident  purpose  of  never 
emerging  thence,  but  they  also  engaged  in  a  struggle 
which,  for  themselves,  was  very  like  a  life-and-death 
matter. 

For  some  time  they  could  not  use  their  boat.  They 
were  obliged  to  drag  it  through  a  tangled  mass  of  roots 
and  vines  and  treacherous  brake,  until  they  could  reach 
the  stream.  The  exertion  they  made  was  almost  super- 
human, and  would  have  been  impossible  to  them  except 
under  the  terrible  incentive  that  drew  them  on.  Only 
when  they  were  afloat,  and  paddling  warily  along  the 
dubious  and  unfamiliar  current,  did  they  understand  how 
their  labor  had  sapped  their  strength.  And  only  then, 
also,  did  they  perceive  that  they  had  passed  from  a  world 
of  uproar  and  elemental  upheaving  into  a  realm  as 
secluded  and  quiet  as  a  tomb. 


154  TRUE. 

The  mighty  winds,  it  is  true,  rumbled  through  the  tops 
of  the  trees  under  which  they  were  buried  ;  but  the  dense 
mass  of  boughs  and  springing  verdure  that  walled  in  the 
secret  places  of  the  swamp,  as  with  a  hundred  separate 
walls,  would  not  permit  that  wild  commotion  of  the  outer 
air  to  reach  them.  Birds  had  fled  hither  from  the  hurri- 
cane, and  even  dared  to  chirp  in  the  lonely  and  forsaken 
thickets  of  this  uncouth  wilderness.  Day  was  spreading 
above  the  thick  canopy  of  boughs,  and  was  pouring  its 
light  all  round  the  vast  area  of  the  swamp  at  its  edges  ; 
but  here,  within,  there  reigned  a  perpetual  and  awful 
twilight.  The  slow,  brown  stream  ran  on  ahead,  turning 
here  and  there,  opening  into  blind  creeks,  sprawling 
through  the  dusk  like  some  great  snaky  thing  with  a 
hundred  sinuous  arms  and  feelers  ;  but  it  was  rather  by 
instinct  and  touch  than  by  any  other  means  that  the  two 
men  in  the  canoe  traced  the  main  body  of  the  slimy  cur- 
rent. "No  landmarks  were  to  be  counted  on  there  :  the 
points  of  the  compass  were  obliterated. 

The  swamp  was  the  home  of  oblivion.  They  moved 
through  it  as  through  a  place  set  apart  for  those  who  are 
condemned  to  a  death  in  life. 

.  From  time  to  time  they  shouted  aloud.  Having  no 
weapons  with  them,  they  could  make  no  other  signal. 
They  called  to  Sylv,  with  a  hope  that  he  might  answer 
to  them  from  the  next  bend  in  the  stream,  or  from  some 
adjoining  depth  of  bough  and  bramble.  Yet  always  the 
same  dead  silence  swallowed  up  the  sound  of  their  voices, 
and  no  human  response  came  back.  The  raw  air,  the 
shade,  the  moisture  of  the  oozing  current,  gradually  in- 
vaded them  with  a  chill  that  seemed  to  run  through  their 
very  bones  ;  but  it  was  with  a  more  deadly  chill  that  they 
gazed  into  one  another's  eyes,  and  thought,  without  say- 


ELBOW-CROOK   SWAMP.  155 

ing  it,  that  perhaps  they  were  even  then  pushing  their 
way  over  the  liquid  grave  in  which  Sylv  might  have 
sought  relief. 

How  long  they  urged  that  ghostly  chase  it  would  not 
be  easy  to  say  :  they  could  form  no  judgment  of  the 
time.  But  at  last  Dennie  caught  sight  of  what  appeared 
to  be  a  ruddy  flame  on  a  low  island  in  the  muddy  flood, 
some  distance  in  advance.  Neither  of  the  paddlers  was 
quite  positive  that  it  was  a  real  flame,  but  they  put  new 
vigor  into  their  strokes,  and  hallooed  again.  Once  more, 
no  answer. 

Still,  the  flame  grew  more  distinct.  The  canoe  swept 
rapidly  forward  and  rubbed  against  the  roots  and  sedi- 
ment of  the  tiny  island.  No  other  boat  was  moored 
there,  but  the  fire  flickered  and  spurted  up  more  vivid- 
ly. Beside  it  they  beheld  Sylv,  haggard,  inert,  and  seem- 
ingly unconscious  of  their  approach. 

"  Sylv  !  Sylv  !  "  cried  Dennie. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?"  Lance  demanded. 

Sylv  shrank  back,  then  started  to  his  feet ;  the  flame- 
light — looking  so  garish  in  that  gloomy  place — thrown 
upward  on  to  his  wan  cheeks  in  such  wise  as  to  make 
them  seem  more  hollow  than  they  were  in  fact. 

"  I  came  here  to  die,"  he  answered,  without  emotion. 
11  Why  did  you  follow  me  ?  It  would  have  been  over  be- 
fore long." 

They  heard  the  booming  of  the  storm- wind  in  the  trees 
overhead,  like  the  groan  of  some  remote  unknown  multi- 
tude of  sufferers  ;  and  it  chimed  in  well  with  the  lonely 
reverberation  of  his  voice. 

"It  is  over  now  !  "  Lance  exclaimed.  "  Don't  you 
see  that  we  won't  let  you  die  ?  It  was  mad  of  you  to  think 
of  such  a  thing,  Sylv  1" 


156  TRUE. 

Dennie  drew  close  to  his  brother  swiftly,  and  pat  Ins 
arm  around  him,  as  though  to  guard  him  from  an  unseen 
enemy. 

' '  Sylv, "  he  said,  "  it  ar'  all  fixed  and  done.  Deely  loves 
ye — she  have  told  me — and  I  see  that  I  ain't  the  one  for 
her.  I'm  clean  done  with  all  that  ar  foolishness,  Sylv, 
and  1  told  her  she'd  got  to  marry  ye,  anyhow.  Steady 
away  now,  Sylv.  D'ye  listen  to  me?" 

The  burly,  red-bearded  brother  slid  his  hands  down 
the  arms  of  the  slender,  dark-haired  one,  and  held  him 
as  if  he  feared  that  he  might  still  break  away  and  escape. 

Lance,  looking  on,  thought  he  had  never  seen  anything 
more  tender,  more  brave  and  manly,  than  Dennie's  ex- 
pression and  attitude.  He  had  never,  he  thought,  heard 
finer  sweetness  in  a  man's  voice  than  came  from  Dennie's 
lips. 

Sylv  broke  down.  "  Dennie,  boy,"  he  cried  ;  and 
then  paused,  choking.  "  Dear  old  Dennie  !"  (His  brother 
winced  at  that  unconscious  repetition  of  Adela's  phrase.) 
"  I  never  thought  this  would  come  !  I  was  true  when  1 
said  I  did  not  love  her.  I  couldn't  know  what  it  would 
be  like,  then.  But,  you  see,  1  tried  to  get  out  of  the 
way.  Oh,  why  didn't  you  let  me  die  here  !" 

The  morbid  mood  which  had  impelled  him  to  the 
resource  of  slow  suicide,  by  starvation  in  the  swamp, 
could  not  at  once  be  dispelled  ;  but  by  dint  of  soothing 
words  and  of  reminders  that  they  must  lose  no  time  in 
getting  back  to  the  outer  world,  the  two  allies  prevailed 
over  Sylv's  melancholy. 

"Where's  your  boat  ?"  asked  Lance. 

"I  set  it  adrift,"  was  the  answer. 

A  fresh  peril  was  thus  intruded  upon  them  ;  for  the 
canoe  would  hold  three  persons  only  with  the  greatest 
precautions. 


ELBOW-CROOK    SWAMP.  157 

"  You  uns  go,  and  then  one  can  come  back  for  me," 
Dennie  suggested. 

But  Lance  would  not  risk  leaving  him  alone.  It  was 
decided,  therefore,  that  they  should  all  embark  and  make 
their  way  to  safety,  if  possible.  The  hazard  and  suspense 
of  the  situation,  however,  roused  Sylv  up  thoroughly. 
All  his  finer  qualities  reasserted  themselves,  and  he  be- 
came the  guiding  spirit  in  the  endeavor  of  the  party  to 
extricate  itself.  He  whom  the  others  had  come  to  recall 
to  life  was  now  eager  to  lead  them  out  of  the  dilemma 
in  which  they  had  placed  themselves  on  his  account.  But 
in  the  anxiety  of  the  moment  he  forgot  one  thing.  The 
flame  which  he  had  kindled,  like  a  torch  in  the  gloomy 
vaults  of  death,  was  left  burning  ;  and  they  had  paddled 
some  distance  before  they  remembered  their  neglect. 

Meanwhile  the  lonely  beacon,  unwatched,  had  shot  out 
an  experimental  tongue  to  try  sundry  dry  vine-stems  hard 
by.  The  stems  responded  with  a  brisk  crackle.  The 
flames  scaled  the  side  of  a  tree  almost  instantly,  and  ran 
along  the  boughs.  Thence  they  transferred  themselves 
with  ease  to  another  tree.  Thus,  in  a  few  minutes,  the 
blaze  spread  from  the  island  into  the  rest  of  the  dense 
wood,  and  became  a  conflagration. 

The  smoke  blew  lazily  toward  the  occupants  of  the 
canoe  ;  then  a  lurid  glow  shone  along  the  murky  water. 
They  saw  their  danger,  and  paddled  with  might  and 
main  ;  but  the  danger  of  upsetting  the  overloaded  craft 
handicapped  them  and  retarded  their  progress. 

Soon  the  glow  came  nearer  and  burst  into  actual  fire. 
The  whole  swamp  seemed  to  be  roofed  with  writhing 
flame.  The  heat  was  frightful :  birds  flew  away  madly 
through  the  labyrinth  ;  the  shadowy  shapes  of  wild  creat- 
ures scurried  through  the  tangle,  and  scared  serpents 
slipped  out  from  their  lairs,  trailing  across  the  sluggish 


158  TRUE. 

stream.  All  the  while  the  fire  pursued  the  three  human 
fugitives  with  what  seemed  a  vindictive  intelligence  :  the 
long  draperies  of  gray  moss  caught  the  sparks,  flash- 
ing them  on  in  vivid  festoons,  and  wrapping  the  forest  in  a 
magnificent  combustion. 

Blinded,  stifled,  and  dizzy,  the  canoeists  were  at  last 
obliged  to  abandon  their  narrow  bark  and  push  their  way 
through  the  fearful  maze  on  shore.  Luckily,  however, 
when  they  were  driven  to  this  extreme  they  had  come 
nearly  to  the  edge  of  the  wilderness. 

Each  struggling  for  himself,  Lance  and  Sylv  suddenly 
achieved  safety  :  they  set  foot  upon  the  solid  ground, 
and  felt  the  fierce  wind  from  the  sea.  But  at  that  junct- 
ure Dennie,  who  was  behind  them,  stumbled,  and  was 
caught  in  the  mire.  The  hissing  mass  of  flame  advanced 
upon  him,  and  Sylv,  seeing  his  danger,  turned  to  help 
him. 

Lance  tried  to  hold  Sylv  back.  He  fought  with  him, 
in  his  desire  to  prevent  what  he  thought  a  certain  sacri- 
fice of  two  lives  instead  of  one.  But  Sylv,  nerved  by  an 
ecstatic  force,  sprang  away  from  him  and  reached  his 
brother's  side.  How  it  was  done  neither  Lance  nor  Sylv 
could  say  afterward  ;  but  the  attempt  succeeded,  and 
Sylv  dragged  Dennie  out  of  danger,  though  not  un- 
scathed. The  intense  heat  had  blistered  their  faces  and 
hands  even  in  the  few  moments  that  it  had  to  work  upon 
them  ;  and  Dennie,  hurt  by  the  fall  of  a  heavy  branch 
which  had  struck  his  leg,  lay  in  the  road,  unable  to  rise. 


"I   LIVE,    HOW   LONG   I   TROW   NOT."  159 

CHAPTER  XYI. 

"l   LIVE,  HOW   LONG   I   TEOW   NOT." 

ONE  might  well  have  supposed  that  the  period  of  final 
destruction  had  come  on  that  eventful  day.  Wind,  fire, 
and  sea  all  combined  to  make  it  a  memorable  one.  For, 
while  Lance  and  the  De  Yines  were  going  through  their 
adventures  in  Elbow-Crook  Swamp,  the  incoming  tides, 
fomented  by  the  winds,  not  only  swept  away  the  paltry 
planking  that  joined  Aunty  Losh's  headland  to  the  main 
shore,  but  also  proceeded  to  crunch  up  and  dissolve  a  large 
portion  of  her  real  estate. 

The  freakish  inroads  of  the  sea  on  the  North  Carolina 
coast  are  scarcely  subjects  for  exaggeration,  because  they 
themselves  outdo  fancy.  The  ocean  thereabouts  has  an 
occasional  fit  of  map-making.  Not  content  with  changing 
the  soundings  as  it  pleases,  it  sometimes  closes  up  an  old 
inlet,  at  a  single  mad  flurry,  or  insists  upon  opening  a 
new  avenue  in  any  place  that  may  suit  its  convenience. 
And  so,  at  this  particular  crisis,  having  thundered  at  the 
outer  gates  and  found  no  admission,  it  sent  a  heavy  tide 
into  the  Sound,  and  played  havoc  there.  The  green 
waters,  ordinarily  manageable  enough,  converted  them- 
selves into  cataracts.  They  heaved,  frothed,  billowed 
and  raged,  until  Aunty  Losh's  demesne,  once  an  innocent 
promontory,  became  a  very  perilous  and  uncomfortable 
island. 

The  watery  ditch  turned  into  a  rushing  tideway  ;  then 
it  became  a  deep  channel  ;  and  lastly  it  widened  into  an 
angry  reach  of  turbulent  waves,  which  could  be  crossed 
only  by  boat.  All  this  transformation,  be  it  remembered, 
was  accomplished  in  a  few  hours. 


160  TRUE. 

Meanwhile,  Aunty  Losh  and  Jessie  cowered  in  the  lit- 
tle cabin  on  the  dwindling  territory,  and  expected  every 
moment  to  be  swallowed  up  by  the  surges  that  lashed  so 
wildly  around  them. 

But  the  retreating  coachman  had  known  what  he  was 
about.  He  had  gone  at  once  to  Hunting  Quarters,  where 
he  had  found  Adela,  who  was  herself  distracted  with  anx- 
iety for  Sylv,  and  therefore  in  a  perfect  mood  for  ventur- 
ing upon  the  wildest  scheme  of  rescue  that  could  be  im- 
agined. It  so  chanced  that  the  dug-out  was  harbored  in 
a  cove  which  the  girl  could  reach.  The  rude  sloop  clung 
there,  thumping  heavily  on  the  bottom,  and  lurching  now 
and  then  against  the  shore,  with  an  impact  that  would 
have  smashed  any  other  sort  of  craft  at  short  notice.  But 
this  was  precisely  what  she  was  made  for,  and  so  she  en- 
dured the  strain. 

Adela  prepared  to  take  her  out  to  the  now  isolated 
cabin,  and  bring  oS  the  inmates.  Old  Reefe  remon- 
strated. He  said  it  was  certain  death  to  go  ;  that  no  boat 
could  live  in  such  a  wind  on  a  short,  shallow  sea  ;  and 
that  his  daughter  must  wait  until  the  storm  abated. 

"  No,"  cried  Adela  ;  "  I  am  going,  whether  it's  death 
or  not  !  How  do  you  know  what  will  happen  to  them  out 
there  if  I  wait  ?  The  cabin  itself  may  be  swept  away,  and 
poor  old  aunty  in  it.  Then,  Dennie  is  there,  and — and 
perhaps  Sylv. "  For  one  instant,  as  she  uttered  this  name, 
her  voice  sank.  "If  they  had  any  boat,  'twould  be 
another  thing.  But  they're  cut  off — they  can't  help 
themselves — and  I'm  going." 

The  brave  girl  hardly  believed  that  she  could  make  the 
trip  in  safety,  but  she  thanked  her  stars  that  Dennie  had 
brought  her  up  to  handle  a  tiller  — and  the  rest  she  left  to 
Providence. 

The  water  was  swashing  up  close  to  the  door  of  the 


"I  LIVE,    HOW   LOKG   I  TROW   NOT."  161 

little  hut,  and  Aunty  Losli  and  Jessie  sat  within,  holding 
on  to  eacli  other  in  silence  when,  through  the  deep,  pro- 
longed roar  of  the  tempest,  they  fancied  that  they  heard 
a  shout — a  woman's  shout.  Simultaneously  with  it  there 
came  a  thud,  like  the  dropping  of  some  heavy  weight 
upon  the  ground  just  outside  of  the  house.  "Lord  be 
praised  1"  Aunty  Losh  exclaimed.  "  Thar  ain't  nothin' 
could  do  that  ar  but  the  ole  dug-out.  Open  the  do', 
Miss  Jessie." 

Jessie  considered  this  as  a  command  to  invite  disso- 
lution into  their  fragile  shelter  ;  but  she  obeyed. 

In  a  few  moments  they  were  on  board  the  sloop, 
bouncing  and  reeling  through  the  violent  waves.  By 
this  time  Colonel  Floyd,  having  also  received  the  alarm, 
reached  the  spot  on  horseback.  Waiting  with  old  Reefe 
on  the  shore,  he  noted  every  motion  of  the  plunging  sail, 
which  was  let  out  barely  enough  to  give  the  dug-out 
headway.  Adela  stood  at  the  helm,  strong  and  master- 
ful as  a  man,  but  with  a  quick,  feminine  eye  for  every 
chance  or  change  of  the  terrific  gale,  and  with  a  touch 
that  responded  instantly  to  her  observation.  She  ignored 
her  two  passengers  absolutely. 

But  when,  after  several  escapes  from  foundering  and 

a  weary  battle  of  tacking  from  one  point  to  another,  the 

sloop  rounded,  with  her  heavy  prow,  into  the  cove  and 

touched  the  land,  the  girl  dropped  down  in  the  stern,  ex- 

1  hausted. 

There  had  been  no  time  for  delay  or  inquiry,  and  in- 
deed it  would  have  been  impossible  to  talk  in  the  over- 
powering bluster  of  the  storm,  while  fighting  a  way 
through  it ;  but  Adela  had  been  very  much  astonished 
both  by  Jessie's  presence  at  the  cabin,  and  by  the  absence 
of  Dennie.  She  now  tried  to  learn  from  Aunty  Losh 
what  had  become  of  him  ;  but  the  poor  old  woman's  mind 


162  TRUE. 

was  in  such  confusion  from  fright  and  from  the  sudden- 
ness oi  her  rescue  that  she  could  not  furnish  much  en- 
lightenment. As  for  Jessie,  she  had  gone  to  the  head- 
land without  any  knowledge  of  Lance's  actual  where- 
abouts, but  thinking  it  probable  that  her  lover  would  be 
there,  since  she  had  heard  something  vaguely  about  his 
arrangements  with  Sylv.  It  was  now  noon,  and  the  sus- 
pense in  which  she  remained  about  Lance,  joined  to 
Adela's  fearful  dread  concerning  Sylv,  would  not  permit 
them  to  rest.  The  colonel,  who  had  been  thrown  into  a 
wild  excitement  by  the  failure  both  of  his  daughter  and 
of  Lance  to  return  to  the  house,  hugged  Jessie  close  to  his 
heart  with  silent  prayers  of  thanksgiving,  and  wrung 
Adela's  hand  with  gratitude,  while  the  tears  ran  down  his 
cheeks.  The  carriage  had  followed  him  with  fresh  horses, 
bringing  dry  wraps,  food,  and  restoratives  ;  and  the 
colonel  insisted  that  the  best  thing  to  be  done  was  for 
the  three  women  to  get  in  and  go  at  once  to  the  manor 
with  him. 

Meanwhile  Sylv  and  Lance,  helping  the  disabled  Den- 
nie  between  them,  had  arrived  at  the  house,  and  were 
taking  care  of  the  sufferer. 

1  need  not  detail  the  recitals  and  explanations  that  fol- 
lowed. 1  will  say  only  that  Jessie  treated  Adela  like  a 
Bister  that  day,  and  ever  afterward.  It  was  strange, 
mysterious,  yet  beautiful,  to  Lance's  eyes,  to  see  them 
together  ;  one  of  them  the  latest  offspring  of  Gertrude 
"Wylde,  rescued  from  oblivion — coaxed  back,  as  it  were, 
from  the  forest  shadows  and  the  red  race  to  her  own  race 
and  kin — the  other  a  descendant  of  Gertrude's  cousin, 
to-day  rescued  by  her  kinswoman  from  the  engulfing 
waters  of  the  Sound.  The  whims  and  prejudices  that 
had  hampered  Jessie  before  were  now  totally  dissolved  ; 
and  Lance's  dream  was  realized,  after  all.  The  wild 


"I   LIVE,    HOW   LOKG   I  TROW  KOT."  163 

thought  which  had  crossed  his  mind,  of  devoting  his  life 
to  Adela,  proved  to  be  simply  a  perversion  of  the  ardent 
desire  which  he  had  felt,  that  she  ought  to  be  included 
somehow  in  the  lines  of  relationship  and  love  prescribed 
by  her  ancestry.  His  allegiance  to  Jessie,  never  really 
shaken,  was  perfect  and  enduring.  But  these  results 
would  never  have  come  about  had  not  the  actors  in  the 
curious  drama  remained,  through  all  their  troubles,  sound 
and  sincere  of  heart.  They  had,  every  one,  risen  some- 
what higher  than  they  were  when  their  relations  began. 
Each  had  advanced  in  his  or  her  own  way.  Sylv  strove 
upward  by  means  of  intellectual  effort  and  by  will  ;  Den- 
nie  attained  to  as  lofty  a  standard  of  conduct  through  the 
working  out  of  instinct  and  passion.  But  in  whatever 
manner  they  had  proceeded,  all  were  true. 

The  wild  storm  went  down  that  night,  though  the 
rolling  sea  and  the  curling  breakers  of  the  Sound  contin- 
ued to  heave  for  hours,  throwing  out  in  the  darkness 
broad  lines  and  crests  of  phosphorescence  that  made  them 
look  like  fluid  white  fire.  Then  the  rain  came,  in  tor- 
rents ;  and  it  was  well  that  it  came,  for  the  danger  to  the 
inflammable  pine-plantations,  from  the  conflagration  in 
Elbow  Crook,  had  become  alarming.  Not  even  the  sullen 
fierceness  of  that  furnace— in  which  the  swamp-woods, 
with  all  their  intricacies  of  flickering  boughs,  like  some 
gigantic  red  coral  work,  were  melting  down — could  with- 
stand the  providential  rain-streams.  The  fire  faded 
away  as  if  by  magic ;  and  the  next  day,  when  Hedson 
went  out,  with  scores  of  other  gazers,  to  look  at  the  expanse 
of  charred  debris  where  the  woods  had  been,  he  remarked 
tersely  (but  in  an  undertone)  to  Lance  :  ' '  That  property 
is  now  worth  just  one  hundred  per  cent  more  for  our 
purpose  than  it  was  day  before  yesterday.  The  clearing 
has  been  done  free  of  charge." 


164  TRUE. 

By  the  middle  of  the  summer  the  county  awoke  to  the 
fact  that  a  syndicate  of  Northern  capitalists  had  purchased 
the  tract  and  were  going  to  develop  it  into  a  prodigious 
vegetable  garden.  The  reed-pulp  paper-mill  went  up  ; 
there  was  an  immense  quantity  of  ditching  and  levelling 
carried  on  in  the  swamp.  Little  houses  began  to  make 
their  appearance  ;  new  dwellers  came  to  live  in  them  ; 
and  a  school  and  church  were  found  to  be  necessary. 
There  is  now  a  flourishing  community  in  that  place  ;  and 
while  Lance,  I  am  glad  to  say,  has  made  a  good  deal  of 
money,  his  pleasure  has  grown  largely  from  the  knowl- 
edge that  ^he  has  brought  about  improvements  which 
others  also  enjoy.  Sylv  acts  as  his  chief  adviser  and 
confidential  agent. 

Dennie's  accident  left  him  somewhat  lame,  but  he  has 
still  found  it  possible  to  be  of  service  in  some  of  Lance's 
undertakings.  He  prefers,  however,  to  retain  a  degree 
of  independence  by  living  on  the  island  with  Aunty  Losh, 
and  following  more  or  less  his  old  employment  in  a 
superior  dug-out  schooner,  which  has  replaced  the  sloop. 
On  the  island  he  has  remained  ever  since  the  marriage 
of  Sylv  and  Adela  and  their  installation  in  a  pretty  house 
which  was  built  for  them,  near  enough  to  the  manor  to 
make  it  convenient  for  the  children  of  Jessie  and  Adela 
to  meet  often  when  they  shall  grow  a  little  older. 

One  slight  question  came  up,  I  must  admit,  as  to  who 
had  the  best  right  to  appropriate  the  old  Wharton  Hall 
motto.  Sylv  acknowledged  that  it  belonged  primarily  to 
Lance,  by  inheritance  from  Guy  Wharton  ;  but,  then,  had 
it  not  been  handed  down  to  Adela  as  well  ?  The  point 
was  settled  without  dispute  ;  for  Sylv's  house  was  built 
before  Lance  was  ready  to  remodel  the  manor,  and  when 
the  plans  were  submitted  to  Lance  he  proposed — with  Jes- 
sie's  permission — that  he  should  be  allowed  to  contribute 


"I   LIVE,    HOW   LONG   I  TROW   NOT."  1G5 

as  his  gift  a  tablet  for  the  hall,  on  which  were  to  be  shown 
(not  cut  in,  but  raised  in  bold  relief)  the  lines  beginning 

"  I  live,  how  long  I  trow  not." 

Dennie  has  no  new  house  and  no  old  motto.  I  can- 
not suppose  that  he  is  altogether  a  contented  man  ;  but  I 
believe  he  is  happy  in  having  taken  the  right  course. 

"  My  old  heart  do  ache  for  ye,  Dennie,"  said  Aunty 
Losh  to  him,  about  the  time  of  the  wedding.  "  There 
ain't  much  on't  left  at  my  time  o'  life  ;  but  what  there  be 
of  heart  in  me  do  ache,  for  sure.  But  ye  done  right,  boy. 
'Tain't  no  use  tryin'  to  drive  a  woman.  It's  mighty  like 
when  ye  tryin'  to  make  a  passel  o'  hens  come  into  the 
house  ;  and  ye  chase  'em  up  and  say,  '  Shoo  !'  and  gits 
'em  a'most  to  the  do';  and  then  they  jist  run  straight 
past  it.  No  ;  ye  can't  drive  a  woman,  Dennie,  if  she's 
sot  her  mind  ag'in  it.  That's  what." 

Dennie  looked  up  from  the  tackle  he  was  mending,  and 
smiled.  "  "Wai,  aunty,"  he  said,  "you  and  me  make  out 
to  git  along  pretty  squar'  together,  don't  we  ?  I  don1 1  want 
for  to  drive  ye,  and  ye  can't  look  to  drive  me,  neither, 
/don't  complain." 

The  last  three  words  will  do  for  his  motto  ;  and  they 
make  a  sufficiently  honorable  one. 


MAJOB  BARBETOTOiTS  MARRIAGE. 


MAJOR  BARKINQTON  before  the  acquisition  of  his  mili- 
tary title  was  a  rather  shapely  gentleman,  with  a  fine, 
carrot-tinted  complexion  and  strong,  reddish  whiskers, 
corresponding  well  with  it,  and  branching  out  on  either 
side  of  his  chin  with  a  valiant  air. 

Nor  did  his  appearance  greatly  alter,  immediately  after 
passing  from  the  condition  of  plain  citizen  to  that  of  a 
defender  of  his  country.  His  chin  (which  was  shaven, 
and  had  a  pretty  little  dent  in  the  bottom  of  it)  came  for 
a  time  more  prominently  before  the  public,  being  carried 
somewhat  higher  in  the  air  ;  but  otherwise  you  would 
hardly  have  known  what  a  great  man  he  was. 

It  happened  thus  :  The  War  of  the  Rebellion  had 
been  going  on  for  about  a  year,  and  Mr.  Zadoc  S.  Bar- 
rington  was  a  boarder  in  the  respectable  but  shabby  man- 
sion of  one  Mrs.  Douce,  in  East  Thirtieth  Street,  New 
York — a  short,  pale,  dusty-looking  woman,  who  had 
under  her  threadbare  wing  a  maiden  relative,  Natalia  by 
name.  Natalia  was  alternately  visitor  and  boarder,  ac- 
cording as  her  slender  income  gave  out  or  held  out,  and 
the  consequence  of  this  variable  status  was  an  equally 
variable  disposition  on  the  part  of  the  aunt  toward  the 
niece.  Mrs.  Douce  had  naturally  a  dry  heat  of  temper, 


MAJOR  BARRINGTON'S  MARRIAGE.  167 

which  was  possibly  the  source  of  that  pulverous  look 
about  the  face  already  noticed  ;  and  it  was  only  by  turn- 
ing on  periodical  smiles,  like  the  spray  from  a  watering- 
cart,  that  she  was  able  to  allay  the  gritty  particles  of  her 
irritability  in  the  presence  of  paying  boarders.  It  was 
to  be  expected,  therefore,  that  during  Natalia's  impecu- 
nious seasons  her  aunt  should  relapse  into  unmitigated 
dustiness,  and  puff  her  discontent,  so  to  speak,  in  dreary 
little  gusts  at  the  forlorn  maiden. 

Being  forlorn,  was  it  strange  that  Natalia  should  look 
to  Barrington  for  sympathy  ?  Not  at  all.  By  degrees 
he  thus  came — without  any  movement  on  his  own  part — 
to  take  an  important  place  in  her  daily  experience.  A 
variety  of  little  hopes  and  illusions,  of  which  her  life 
had  been  pretty  well  divested  before,  and  which  she 
alone  could  not  have  revived,  sprung  up  spontaneously 
under  the  most  casual  glance  of  Zadoc  S.  For  example, 
though  she  had  no  appetite  for  Mrs.  Douce' s  feeble  din- 
ners, she  could  get  up  a  fictitious  enjoyment  of  them  by 
looking  at  the  robust  Barrington,  whose  bold  coloring 
and  hearty  appearance  deceived  her  as  to  the  real  meas- 
ure of  his  relish  for  that  dreary  cookery. 

Barrington  was  not  dangerously  youthful,  but  neither 
was  Natalia.  Financially  he  was  not  prosperous,  but  she 
was  decidedly  not  so.  Heaven  only  knows  how,  during 
the  years  of  his  residence  in  New  York,  he  had  con- 
trived to  subsist.  It  was  not  on  any  scientific  principle 
of  survival  that  he  persisted  ;  but  rather  on  the  principle 
of  the  fallen  sparrow.  Still,  he  was  a  portly  sparrow, 
and  must  have  needed  a  good  deal  to  keep  him  on  his 
feet.  But  he  remained  on  his  feet — he  never  soared. 
And  yet,  such  as  he  was,  Natalia — let  us  confess  it  with 
a  becoming  amount  of  maiden  timidity — yes,  Natalia 
had  begun  to  love  him. 


1G8  MAJOR  BARRINGTON'S  MARRIAGE. 


II. 

BCT  she  did  not  tell  her  love.  She  let  concealment 
feed  upon  her  cheek — which,  to  be  accurate,  was  not 
damask,  but  rather  of  the  quality  of  sarsnet.  However, 
before  her  appearance  had  had  time  to  suffer  by  this  proc- 
ess, an  unexpected  proceeding  on  the  part  of  Barrington 
led  her  to  reveal  her  sentiment — to  surprise  and,  one 
might  say,  surround  him.  Did  capture  follow  ?  Let  us 
see. 

At  this  period  his  affairs  were  very  low.  He  was  a 
prospective  patentee,  a  filer  of  caveats  for  little  inven- 
tions, which  no  one  could  have  been  hired  to  infringe, 
the  most  ingenious  point  of  which  was  their  perfect 
adaptability  for  not  making  money.  He  was  also  by 
turns  an  agent  for  books,  subscription  engravings,  sew- 
ing-machines, and  what  not.  He  did  everything  but 
succeed.  Finally  he  conceived  the  idea  of  a  new  vege- 
table lamp-oil  that  could  be  made  from  floating  oily  mat- 
ter to  be  found  in  any  swamp.  He  had  made  close  com- 
putation of  the  swampy  land  in  the  whole  State  of  New 
York,  which  could  be  bought  for  a  trifle,  and  turned 
into  sources  of  boundless  wealth.  For  a  time  he  fed  the 
flame  of  hope  with  this  visionary  fluid  ;  but  a  serious 
lamp  explosion,  resulting  from  one  of  his  experiments, 
deprived  him  at  once  of  half  his  whiskers  and  all  his  ex- 
pectations. There  was  indeed  one  resource  left  him,  the 
nature  of  which  we  may  discover  presently  ;  but  he  hesi- 
tated to  avail  himself  of  it,  because  it  might  compromise 
his  independence.  In  fact,  a  certain  steady  effort  to  be 
a  man  and  to  keep  his  self-respect,  in  spite  of  his  many 
failures,  was  Barrington 's  finest  trait,  and  always  gave 
me  a  liking  for  him,  notwithstanding  his  weakness. 


MAJOR  HARRINGTON'S  MARRIAGE.  1C9 

By  the  time  his  singed  whiskers  had  regained  their 
pristine  vigor,  and  when  the  war  had  passed  through  its 
first  year,  there  drove  up  to  Mrs.  Douce's  door,  one  day, 
an  express  wagon  with  a  trunk  in  it.  The  startling  thing 
about  this  was  that  the  trunk  (which  was  made  of  sole- 
leather)  was  quite  new,  and  had  painted  on  it,  with  ter- 
rific distinctness,  this  legend  : 

I    CAPT.  Z.  S.  BARRINGTON,  U.  S.  A.    : 

The  painted  end  of  the  trunk  happened  to  be  nearest 
the  house.  Now,  Mrs.  Douce  was  at  that  very  moment 
in  her  reception-room  on  the  ground  floor — a  sort  of 
little  bin  or  wine-cooler  of  a  room,  where  (having  noth- 
ing better  to  cool)  she  kept  callers,  and  sometimes  her- 
self— and  from  there  she  spied  the  appalling  arrival. 
She  did  not  know,  which  was  the  fact,  that  Barrington, 
tired  of  his  sparrow's  life  on  the  pavements  of  the  metrop- 
olis, had  been  in  correspondence  with  friends  at  Wash- 
ington, who  had  secured  him  the  promise  of  a  commis- 
sion on  his  applying  for  it.  He  had  not  at  once  made 
such  application,  but  had  gone  off  with  much  high  beat- 
ing of  the  heart,  and  ordered  the  trunk,  as  a  preliminary, 
feeling  perhaps  that  the  final  step  would  be  easier  to  take 
after  committing  himself  thus  far. 

Mrs.  Douce,  I  say,  not  knowing  this,  opened  the  door 
for  the  expressman  in  a  great  flurry  of  excitement. 
"Now,  indeed,"  thought  she,  melodramatically,  "I 
begin  to  feel  what  war  is  !" 

Then  she  ran  up-stairs  herself,  to  inform  Barrington 
that  the  trunk  had  come.  But  he  was  equal  to  the 
emergency.  With  an  unshaken  demeanor  the  hero  rose 
from  the  table  at  which  he  had  been  conducting  a  busy 


170  MAJOR   BAKRINGTOtf'S   MARRIAGE. 

and  wholly  useless  correspondence,  and  looked  at  Mrs. 
Douce  with  a  magnificent  calm,  which  gave  her  a  strange 
sensation  of  having  penetrated  some  great  general's 
headquarters.  Then  he  proceeded  down-stairs  to  parley 
with  the  expressman,  who  for  a  moment  seemed  to  take 
the  place  of  a  flag-of-truce  bearer,  or  some  kind  of  mili- 
tary ambassador. 

As  Barring-ton  descended  he  heard  Natalia  in  the 
drawing-room  conducting  to  its  close  an  extensive  piece 
of  music,  with  a  copious  rumbling  of  low  notes  and  a 
twittering  of  high  oneSj  which  was  apparently  reluctant 
to  be  brought  to  a  close  at  all.  The  sound  touched  his 
heart,  somehow  ;  but  he  went  on.  It  also  touched  Mrs. 
Douce,  who  had  followed  ;  but  she  did  not  go  on. 


III. 


SHE  stopped  in  the  narrow  passage,  just  by  a  niche 
containing  a  tall  and  bilious-complexioned  alabaster  vase, 
with  scraggly  arms,  which  had  always  impressed  her  as 
giving  the  house  a  great  advantage  over  other  boarding- 
houses.  (That  vase,  by  the  way,  had  levied  its  tax  in 
many  a  bill.)  But  now  it  seemed  gloomily  symbolic  ; 
everything  had  begun  to  seem  unnatural  and  suggestive 
since  that  trunk  appeared.  She  fancied  the  vase  was 
like  a  "storied  urn,"  containing  the  ashes  of  some 
valiant  warrior  who  should  no  more  wield  the  humble 
breakfast-knife  at  her  devastated  table.  Overcome  with 
emotion,  she  passed  on  and  pushed  open  the  drawing, 
room  door. 


MAJOR  HARRINGTON'S  MARRIAGE.  171 

"  Natalia,"  she  exclaimed,  impressively,  "  guess 
what  has  happened  !"  As  the  expressman,  with  fate-like 
footsteps,  tramped  up-stairs,  carrying  the  trunk  on  his 
shoulder,  Barrington,  who  came  after  him,  noticed  that 
the  rumbling  and  twittering  of  the  piano  had  ceased,  and 
that  his  landlady  had  disappeared.  The  two  women 
were,  in  fact,  conversing  in  agitated  whispers  on  the 
other  side  of  the  closed  parlor  door. 

"  "Well,  never  did  I  think  to  lose  him  /"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Douce. 

"  Poor  aunt  !"  said  Natalia  ;  "  and  so  late  in  the 
season,  too." 

"  It  isn't  that  so  much, "  interrupted  the  other,  severe- 
ly ;  "  but  it  hurts  me  that  he  should  have  been  so  sud- 
den and  so  secret." 

"  Perhaps  he  thought  we — "  Natalia  paused,  and 
blushed.  "  But  why  should  he  think  we'd  urge  him  to 
stay  ?" 

"  Hark  !  is  he  coming  down  again  ?"  said  her  aunt. 
No  ;  it  was  merely  the  expressman.  He  thumped  his 
way  down  to  the  street  door.  They  heard  the  wagon 
drive  off,  and  for  a  moment  afterward  they  held  their 
breath,  as  if  a  battle  had  been  raging  near  them,  and 
the  heavy  current  of  the  fight  had  now  swept  by,  leav- 
ing them  in  suspense,  lest  it  should  return.  Then  the 
dignified  step  of  Barrington  resounded  on  the  staircase. 
He  came  to  the  door,  and  opened  it.  "I  ought,"  he 
began,  stepping  in  with  a  smile,  "to  explain  matters  a 
little." 

Mrs.  Donee's  mood  was  like  that  of  elderly  matrons  at 
the  wedding  of  a  young  friend.  She  hardly  knew 
whether  to  laugh  or  cry.  "Oh,"  she  returned,  in  the 
breathless,  short-of-supplies  manner  usual  with  her  in 
awkward  situations,  "  oh — no — explanation  is_  needed, 


172  MAJOR  HARRINGTON'S  MARRIAGE. 

.Mr.  Barrington  !"  and,  after  a  short  pause,  simpering, 
"I'm  sure." 

Natalia,  meanwhile,  stood  in  a  shrinking,  drooping 
attitude  near  the  battered  rosewood  piece  of  furniture 
from  which  she  had  been  drawing  music,  and  looked  a 
good  deal  like  one  of  those  young  ladies  in  old  colored 
prints  who  devote  themselves  to  standing  mournfully 
under  weeping  willows,  among  headstones. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  proceeded  Barrington,  who  took 
Mrs.  Douce's  denial  at  its  worth,  "  I  didn't  say  anything, 
because — well,  it  wasn't  quite  settled." 

11  Then  you're  not  sure  of  going  to  the  war  ?"  Nata- 
lia burst  forth,  with  pathetic  eagerness.  (Barrington 
noticed  that  her  heightened  color  was  becoming  to  her.) 

"  Sure  ?"  answered  he,  cruelly  ;  "  oh,  yes  ;  humanly 
speaking,  I  suppose  it's  sure  enough.  I— good  gracious  ! 
—I  only—" 

These  incoherent  phrases  were  drawn  out  by  the  effect 
his  statement  had  produced.  Natalia's  eyelids  fell  at  his 
words.  She  was  trying  to  repress  a  tendency  to  sob.  By 
the  time  the  hero  had  discovered  this  a  tear  had  found 
its  way  into  sight  beneath  her  eyelashes. 

"There!"  cried  Mrs.  Douce,  sternly.  "Any  one 
might  have  known  it.  We  aren't  made  of  sole-leather, 
Mr.  Barrington.  [He  said  to  himself  it  was  lucky  she 
had  told  him  this.]  Common  humanity  and  friendship 
ought  to  have  shown  you  what  this  suddenness  would 
lead  to." 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  murmured  her  niece,  referring  to 
the  tears  now  hurrying  down  her  face,  and  misled  by 
the  matron's  angry  tone  and  her  own  confusion  into  the 
idea  that  she  was  being  scolded.  (She  was  at  this  time 
without  money.) 

"  Of  course  you  can't,   dear,"  said  the  aunt,  sooth- 


MAJOR  BARRIXGTON'S  MARRIAGE.  173 

ingly.  "  As  if  any  one  with  any  considerateness,  or 
average  humanity,  I  may  say,  would  suppose  you  could  ! 
I  am  not  the  woman  to  blame  you  for  giving  way  under 
the  circumstances,  Natalia.  It  only  shows  you've  got  a 
heart,  while  some  people — Mr.  Barrington,  excuse  me, 
but  I  must  speak  out."  However,  she  didn't  speak  out 
any  further,  but  wound  up  with  :  "  Anyway,  it  can't  be 
worse  than  it  is  [though  nobody  had  intimated  that  it 
could  be].  You've  decided  to  leave  me.  Well,  that's 
what  I  must  expect,  I  suppose."  And  she  dropped  into 
a  chair,  and  patted  her  thumbs  together,  as  if  there  were 
some  crushing  sarcasm  in  the  action,  which  satisfied  her 
wounded  feelings. 

Barrington  succumbed  to  remorse.  Besides,  Natalia's 
unhappiness  aroused  his  sympathy,  and  he  became  angry 
— without  knowing  whether  he  had  a  right  to  be  so — at 
Mrs.  Donee's  taking  the  part  of  a  comforter.  He 
fancied  he  could  do  this  even  better  than  she.  "  Of 
course,"  he  said,  stiffly,  "  I  don't  expect  to  leave  you 
without  compensation  for  not  giving  notice.  I  shall  pay 
you  for  two  or  three  weeks  extra." 

He  felt  a  dreadful  sinking  of  the  pocket  as  he  spoke  ; 
but  dignity  required  the  sacrifice.  The  landlady  did  not 
respond  for  an  instant ;  her  eyes  wandered  about  with  a 
pained,  prophetic  air.  "  What  have  I  done,"  she  cried, 
"  to  bring  this  upon  me  ?  Mr.  Barrington,  have  I  ever 
asked  you  more  than  we  agreed  upon  ?  Have  I  treated 
my  family  meanly  ?  You  have  been  in  this  house  two 
years,  and  I  know  you  can't  point  to  anything.  "What 
have  I  done  to  be  insulted  so  ?"  she  demanded  of  the 
faded  window-curtains. 

A  moment  of  silence  followed  this  outburst ;  then  she 
swept  out  of  the  room,  with  a  thin  rustle  of  her  black 
dress,  and  left  the  prospective  captain  and  Natalia  alone. 


174  MAJOR   BARRIlHGTON'S   MARRIAGE. 


IV. 


Miss  DOUCE  put  away  her  handkerchief  in  a  business- 
like manner,  and  looked  at  Barrington  with  soft  appeal. 
"Ah,  why  didn't  you  tell  ?" 

"  Tell  ?  My  dear  Miss  Douce,  I  had  no  idea—" 

"  Thoughtless  man,  not  to  foresee  !" 

"I  didn't  suppose  your  aunt  would  be  so  much 
annoyed." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that!"  said  Natalia,  growing 
judiciously  pettish. 

"  What  then  ?" 

"Not  7^er,"  said  the  maiden,  significantly. 

"  Really,  Miss  Douce,"  said  Barrington,  "  you  have 
surprised  me — I  had  no  idea — " 

"Don't,  for  pity's  sake,  tell  me  again  that  you  had 
no  idea  !"  exclaimed  Natalia. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  meant  to  say  something." 

"  What  good  can  it  do  to  say  anything,  when  you 
have  done  your  best  to  break  our  hearts  ?"  she 
demanded.  And  here  she  brought  out  the  handkerchief 
again,  and  began  to  look  dangerously  tearful. 

"  Goodness  !"  said  the  unfortunate  man.  "  I'm  sure 
I  didn't  mean  to.  I  would  a  good  deal  rather  stay  at 
home  than  have  you  feel  this  way." 

"  You  have  caused  me  great  suffering,  whether  you 
meant  to  or  not,"  declared  Miss  Douce,  with  a  quaver  in 
her  voice.  Then,  replying  to  his  devotion  :  "  Will  you 
give  up  going,  to  prove  your  words  ?  Will  you  stay  at 
home  ?" 

Barrington  felt  the  glory  upon  his  horizon  beginning 
to  fade.  He  braced  himself  by  a  chair  with  one  hand  ; 


MAJOR  BARRINGTON'S  MARRIAGE.  175 

with  the  other  he  took  Natalia's.  "  Do  you  ask  this  as 
a  personal  favor  ?"  he  said. 

Miss  Douce  was  weeping  slightly  again.  "  I  don't 
want  you  to  go,"  she  answered,  shyly,  turning  away  her 
head.  "  Yes,  for  my  sake,  stay  !" 

At  this  crisis  Rawsden,  one  of  the  junior  boarders, 
who  had  just  returned  from  business  and  had  been  met 
at  the  reception-bin  by  Mrs.  Douce  with  news  of  the 
dread  trunk,  passed  up- stairs  and  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  tableau,  from  the  hall.  "Aha,"  he  muttered  (for 
he  was  a  cynical  youth) — "  Hector  and  Andromache  !" 
And  then  he  glided  on  and  up  to  his  remote  chamber. 

Zadoc  S.  still  hesitated  a  moment.  "  I  shall  not  go 
immediately,  in  any  case,"  he  said,  gently.  "  I  shall  be 
here  some  days  yet." 

"  But  why  go  at  all  ?"  urged  the  Andromache.  "  Is 
it  irrevocable  ?" 

"  No,"  he  answered,  unguardedly.  "  I — I  haven't 
got  my  commission  yet.  I'm  only  expecting  it." 

There  was  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  on  this 
announcement.  Barrington  became  aware  that  his  posi- 
tion was  not  so  heroic  as  it  had  been,  and  Natalia  began 
to  blush  violently  at  having  betrayed  her  feelings  on  a 
sham  emergency.  But,  as  it  happened,  neither  of  them 
thought  of  getting  out  of  the  trouble  by  laughing. 

"  You  see,  now,  why  I  kept  it  to  myself,"  he  pro- 
ceeded, awkwardly,  after  some  delay. 

Miss  Douce  had  released  her  hand,  and  now  rose  ab- 
ruptly. "  Oh,  yes,"  she  said  ;  "  I  suppose  it  was  all 
very  foolish  of  me — but— you  will  forgive  me  ?" 

"  I  assure  you,  I  feel  honored,"  cried  Zadoc,  warmly, 
"by  your  solicitude.  And,  if  I  dared— if  you  would 
allow  me — " 

Let  me  here  confess  that  I  haven't  the  slightest  notion 


176  MAJOK   BARRLNGTOSr'S   MABEIAGE. 

what  Barrington,  in  that  moment  of  impulse,  was  going 
to  say.  But  explanation  is  made  unnecessary  by  the 
fact  that  Miss  Douce  didn't  allow  him  to  finish. 

"Don't  say  any  more,"  she  begged.  "It  is  too 
painful.  I  must  go  and  find  my  aunt,  Mr.  Barrington, 
to  tell  her  there's  a  hope  of  your  staying.  For  if  your 
commission  shouldn't  come — " 

"  I  should  wait,  of  course,"  he  responded,  captivated 
by  her  glance. 

Naturally,  after  this,  he  went  up  to  the  room  which 
Mrs.  Douce's  fancy  had  transformed  into  a  headquarters, 
and  wrote  to  his  Washington  friends  not  to  get  the  com- 
mission. Of  course,  too,  Mrs.  Douce  came  gently  rap- 
ping at  his  door,  in  the  evening,  with  a  face  as  solemn 
as  an  obituary  notice,  and  with  his  bill  in  her  pocket, 
whereon  she  had  obediently  registered  the  item  of  com- 
pensatory payment,  which  she  had  so  scornfully  rejected 
in  the  afternoon.  Quite  of  course  he  said,  with  dignity  : 
"  You  may  leave  the  bill,  but  I  have  decided  not  to  go." 
And  then,  by  sequence,  she  affirmed — her  face  irradiated 
with  joy — that  she  had  brought  the  bill  very  reluctantly, 
in  the  first  place,  a,nd,  if  he  would  excuse  her,  she 
thought  she  would  not  leave  it. 

As  a  further  matter  of  course,  Miss  Natalia,  being  in- 
formed of  the  abandonment  of  warlike  measures,  pre- 
tended not  to  care  anything  about  the  episode,  and  to 
feel  that  it  was  rather  an  impertinence  than  otherwise  to 
bring  it  to  her  notice. 

On  the  other  hand,  little  Rawsden  had  been  cracking 
his  joke  about  Hector,  etc.,  to  a  Miss  Sneef,  a  rather 
pretty  young  boarder,  whom  he  honored  by  confiding  to 
her  his  more  successful  sarcasms  ;  and,  when  she  im- . 
parted  to  him,  next  day,  the  news  of  Barrington's  ca- 
pitulation, he  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  smile  pallidly 


MAJOE  BARRINGTON'S  MARRIAGE.  177 

and  look  as  if  lie  had  known  all  about  it  from  an  early 
period  of  his  existence.  Without  changing  his  tone,  he 
muttered,  dryly  :  "  Antony  and  Cleopatra  !" 


V. 

THE  two  parties  most  concerned  said  nothing  about  it 
to  each  other  for  days.  But  the  interval  was  not  unem- 
ployed. Mrs.  Douce,  having  now  discovered  her  niece's 
inclination  (if  she  had  not  known  it  before),  was  allured 
by  a  calculation,  based  on  the  fact  that  Barrington  had 
always  managed  to  pay  his  bills,  and  on  the  hope  that  if 
Natalia  were  to  become  Mrs.  Barrington  two  permanent 
paying  boarders  might  be  secured,  with  possibly,  in 
time,  a  half  price  besides.  "  One  of  these  days,  after 
all,"  she  said  to  Barrington,  whom  she  took  an  early 
opportunity  of  seeing  alone,  "  you  will  be  going  off  and 
leaving  me,  I  fear." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  he  ;  "  I've  really  given  up  the  war  !" 

"  But  there  are  other  things  than  war." 

"  Other  things  to  carry  me  away,  do  you  mean  ?  Or 
other  disasters  ?" 

"Well,  not  exactly  disasters,"  said  Mrs.  Douce, 
hastily  ;  "  I  mean  marriage." 

"  You  don't  call  that  a  disaster,  then  ?"  Barrington 
inquired,  wickedly.  "  But  what  on  earth  has  put  this 
into  your  head  ?" 

"  It's  much  easier  to  get  into  my  head  than  war.  If 
you  could  think  of  such  an  unnatural  thing  as  going  to 
war,  you  might  easily  decide  to  marry, "  was  the  land- 
lady's equivocal  conclusion. 


178  MAJOR  BARRINGTON'S  MARRIAGE. 

"  What,  I  ?"  exclaimed  Barrington,  trying  not  to  grow 
red,  but  doing  so.  "I  see  I've  made  you  suspicious." 

At  this  juncture  a  faint  ghostly  voice  was  heard  rising 
from  the  basement,  where  the  cook  had  long  been  buried, 
to  the  third-story  banister,  where  they  were  talking. 
"Mrs.  Douce,  Mrs.  Douce  !"  And  Mrs.  Douce,  giving 
him  an  arch  look,  observed,  with  a  dry  laugh  :  "I  don't 
know  what  you're  plotting."  Then  she  obeyed  the 
voice. 

Whether  this  talk  was  the  cause,  or  whether  it  was 
owing  to  the  interest  which  Miss  Natalia  Douce's  be- 
havior with  regard  to  the  military  trunk  excited,  Bar- 
rington's  attention  was  more  closely  directed  to  her  now, 
and  he  observed  in  her  from  day  to  day  a  deepening 
melancholy.  She  became  listless,  and  fell  into  reveries. 
She  played  more  than  usual  on  the  piano  in  the  dowdy 
parlor,  behind  the  bilious-looking  but  aristocratic  vase  ; 
but  there  was  less  rumbling  and  twittering  in  her  music 
than  formerly,  and  there  were  more, pensive  strains.  She 
played  "  Make  me  no  Gaudy  Chaplet"  and  nocturnes 
by  sundry  composers  ;  she  sang  "  The  Three  Fishers." 
All  this  was  the  more  interesting,  in  that  there  was  no 
apparent  personal  application  in  the  music  she  choose, 
since  no  one  had  insisted  upon  her  accepting  a  gaudy 
chaplet,  and  she  was  not  wedded  as  yet  to  a  fisherman. 
But  one  evening  Barrington,  coining  down  a  few  min- 
utes before  dinner,  entered  the  parlor  as  she  was  wrench- 
ing from  the  key-board  the  last  phrases  of  a  funeral 
march  in  the  "  Songs  without  Words."  He  listened 
attentively  until  she  had  finished  ;  then,  after  a  mo- 
ment's reflection,  called  out  from  the  arm-chair  he  had 
taken  :  "  But  why  do  you  play  such  mournful  things, 
nowadays,  Miss  Natalia,  especially  before  dinner  ?  No 
wonder  you  have  no  appetite. ' ' 


MAJOR  BARRLN-GTON'S  MARRIAGE.  179 

Natalia  didn't  answer,  but  got  up  in  silence  and  made 
for  the  door.  On  the  way,  however,  she  turned  toward 
him  with  a  look  of  indignation  and  a  terrible  flash  of  the 
eye.  The  next  instant  she  was  gone.  She  did  not  ap- 
pear at  dinner. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  is  the  matter  with  your 
niece  ?"  Harrington  blandly  asked  the  aunt,  at  table. 
"  I  made  a  casual  remark  about  her  playing,  just  now, 
and  she  left  the  room  without  a  word." 

Mrs.  Douce  did  not  answer  the  question  until  the  next 
day,  when  she  came  to  Barrington's  room.  "  I've  found 
out  all  about  it,  now,"  she  said.  "  The  idea  of  asking 
me  what  was  the  matter,  when  you  had  been  speaking  to 
her  in  that  way  !" 

"Good  Lord!"  cried  Barrington,  nettled.  "What 
way  ?  It  was  innocent  enough  ;  and  I  really  don't  like 
those  tunes." 

"  After  all  that  has  happened  !"  continued  the  land- 
lady, casting  up  her  eyes. 

"  Well,  what  has  happened  ?"  he  demanded. 

"  Why,  your  thinking  of  going  to  the  war — and — and 
Natalia's  feeling  badly,  and — well,  you  understand, 
though  I  can't  explain  myself,  you've  put  me  out  so 
with  your  abruptness." 

"  It's  always  my  abruptness  or  my  suddenness,"  com- 
plained Barrington.  "  No  ;  I  don't  understand  you." 

Mrs.  Douce's  dusty  face  hardened  and  dried  till  it 
became  a  very  desert  of  physiognomy.  "Well,"  she 
said,  "  you  are  not  a  boy,  and  1 — well,  I  am  old  enough, 
I  suppose,"  with  a  catch  of  the  breath,  "to  be  your 
mother.  So  we  may  as  well  speak  plainly.  You  see 
that  Natalia  is  deeply  interested  in  you  ;  you  consented 
for  her  sake  to  give  up  going  to  the  front  ;  and  now  you 
coolly  abandon  her.  Not  content  with  that,  you  begin 


180  MAJOR  BABRINGTOir'S  MARRIAGE. 

to  taunt  her  with  her  melancholy.  I  little  expected  this, 
Mr.  Barrington.  1  little  expected  it." 

"  Oh,  you're  unjust !' '  said  Zadoc  S. 

"  At  least,  you'll  admit  you've  wounded  her  feelings 
and  ought  to  apologize,"  was  the  rejoinder. 

"  Perhaps  so,"  he  confessed,  feeling  sorry  for  Natalia. 

"  Go  and  see  her,"  urged  his  landlady,  gently,  though 
still  with  something  of  the  desert  atmosphere  in  her 
voice.  "  Speak  to  her  about  it." 

"I  will." 

"  But,  remember  there's  only  one  thing  can  make  your 
conduct  consistent  and  restore  her  happiness." 

"  You  mean,"  said  Barrington,  exploring  the  dent  in 
his  chin  with  his  forefinger — "you  mean,  propose?" 
Then,  as  if  this  were  quite  out  of  the  question,  he  shook 
his  head  vigorously,  smiling.  "  Of  course  not  that ;  but 
I  don't  see  what  else  you  can  mean." 

"  Nothing  else,"  said  the  voice  of  the  desert. 

"  It's  impossible,"  he  rejoined,  quietly. 

"  You  must"  responded  the  voice. 

Then  Barrington  delivered  a  crushing  blow.  "  I  have 
promised  to  marry  some  one  else, ' '  he  said,  with  great 
composure. 

To  Mrs.  Douce's  gasping,  broken,  indignant  queries 
he  replied  that  the  lady's  name  was  Magill,  and  that  she 
was  a  widow  possessed  of  ample  means.  There  had  long 
been  an  understanding  between  them,  he  declared,  but 
he  had  been  unwilling  to  marry  without  an  independent 
property  of  his  own.  Unable  to  acquire  this,  he  had 
hoped  at  least  to  gain  distinction  in  the  army.  That 
hope  he  had  sacrificed  out  of  pure  sympathy  for  Miss 
Natalia  Douce's  distress  ;  and  now  he  had  concluded  to 
marry  without  further  delay. 


MAJOR  HARRINGTON'S  MARRIAGE.  181 


VI. 


1  PASS  over  the  period  of  internal  convulsion  in  the 
Douce  hearts,  widowed  and  maiden,  which  followed 
Barrington's  disclosure.  For  a  time  their  disconcert- 
ment was  so  obvious  that  Eawsden  had  it  all  his  own  way 
in  making  contemptuous  remarks  about  them  to  Miss 
Sneef  ;  and  to  judge  from  the  conversation  of  these  two 
singular  young  people,  you  would  have  supposed  that 
nothing  could  give  them  such  exquisite  delight  as  to  prove 
that  all  human  beings  are  .unspeakably  false  and  absurd, 
and  that  if  they  could  but  have  succeeded  in  showing 
each  other — Miss  Sneef  on  her  part,  and  Rawsden  on  his 
— how  they  two  were  the  falsest  and  absurdest  of  all, 
their  happiness  would  have  been  complete. 

But  Natalia  soon  rallied  from  the  shock  of  Barring- 
ton's  engagement  to  Mrs.  Magill,  at  least  far  enough  to 
begin  an  exasperating  warfare  of  innuendo,  which, 
though  it  stabbed  her  own  heart  as  well,  brought  a  balm 
of  revenge  to  her  own  wounds,  but  left  Barrington  quiver- 
ing under  the  petty  blows,  She  made  frequent  allusions 
to  that  neglected  trunk  belonging  to  the  non-existent 
Captain  Barrington,  II.  S.  A.  ;  affected  to  believe  that 
he  kept  in  it  a  complete  set  of  defunct  accoutrements, 
which  she  begged  him  to  put  on  some  time  and  show  to 
the  "  family  ;"  and  in  general  taunted  him  most  unfairly 
with  his  abandonment  of  his  whilom  noble  resolve  to 
seek  the  martial  field. 

Before  long  the  entire  "  family  "  of  boarders  had 
joined  more  or  less  actively  in  this  guerilla  attack  ;  and 
the  worst  of  it  was,  that  they  always  kept  just  beyond 
the  pseudo-captain's  range.  He  couldn't  retort  upon 


182  MAJOR   HARRINGTON'S   MARRIAGE. 

them  without  losing  his  dignity.  At  last  he  hit  upon  a 
masterly  defence.  One  day  he  said  to  Natalia,  carelessly, 
at  the  table  :  "  Oh,  as  to  my  uniform  that  youVe  been 
asking  about,  I'll  show  it  to  you  to-night !  I  am  going 
to  drill." 

The  effect  was  gratifying.  Natalia  grew  pale  at  the 
thought  that  her  cruel  sneers  had  actually  driven  Bar- 
rington  (whom  she  continued  to  adore  in  spite  of  his  de- 
sertion) back  to  the  cannon's  mouth,  so  to  speak.  The 
other  boarders  were  also  deeply  impressed,  in  their  sev- 
eral degrees.  These  emotions  were  considerably  modi- 
fied, yet  not  wholly  effaced,  when  the  military  aspirant 
finally  appeared  in  his  trappings  ;  for  he  did  not  wear 
the  United  States  uniform.  He  was  clothed  in  the 
splendors  of  a  militia  major.  He  revealed  to  the  little 
group  of  fellow-boarders,  who  had  assembled  with  a  sort 
of  hushed  solemnity  to  inspect  him,  that  for  some  time 
he  had  been  getting  up  a  new,  independent  cavalry  com- 
pany, of  which  he  was  now  the  commander. 

"  And  you're  all  organized  ?"  asked  one  gentleman, 
gazing  at  the  major  as  if  he  were  an  entire  company  in 
himself. 

"  Yes  ;  first  drill  to-night,"  said  Barrington,  with  a 
business-like  air,  lighting  a  cigar,  and  looking  quite 
terrific. 

ft  Thought  a  company  was  commanded  by  a  captain, 
and  not  a  major,"  observed  Itawsden,  rescuing  himself 
from  a  secret  feeling  almost  of  admiration,  and  becoming 
cynical  again,  just  in  time  to  retain  the  approval  of  Miss 
Sneef,  who  gave  him  a  sagacious  glance. 

"  Yes,  that's  the  common  way,"  said  the  officer,  with 
superior  indifference  ;  "  but  in  consideration  of  my  zeal 
and  expense  in  getting  up  the  company,  which  is  very 
large,  I  rank  as  Major  of  the  National  Guard  of  the 


MAJOR  BARRIXOTON'S  MARRIAGE.  183 

State."  Then,  with  striking  precision,  he  executed  a 
brilliant  retreat  from  the  parlor,  slammed  the  street-door, 
as  he  went  out  below,  with  a  report  like  a  cannon,  and 
left  the  awe-struck  boarders  to  spend  a  miserably  peaceful 
evening,  in  a  state  of  deep  humility,  while  he  reaped  the 
first  honors  of  his  new  career. 


VIE 

THERE  was  much  question  among  them  as  to  where  he 
had  got  the  money  for  this  great  undertaking  ;  but  Mrs. 
Douce  shrewdly  suspected  that  the  widow's  gold  had 
something  to  do  with  it.  She  was  right.  Mrs.  Magill's 
money  had  gilded  the  major's  uniform  and  the  spurs 
whereby  he  was  now  hoping  to  leap  into  the  saddle  of 
fame. 

Still,  there  was  no  immediate  sign  of  the  threatened 
marriage  for  some  time  after  this.  Harrington  took 
part  in  sundry  parades,  and  he  and  his  company  were 
freely  mentioned  in  the  papers.  But  the  widow  re- 
mained so  entirely  in  the  background  that  Natalia  almost 
believed  she  was  a  myth  ;  and  there  was  no  change  in 
Zadoc's  military  life,  except  that  the  letters  U.  S.  A.  on 
the  trunk  were  replaced  with  N.  Y.  S.  N.  G.  Then 
came  the  tremendous  day  when  Barrington's  cavalry 
were  ordered  out,  with  other  militia,  to  resist  the  rebel 
invasion  of  Pennsylvania.  1  will  spare  the  reader  the 
hardships  of  that  campaign.  It  is  enough  that  the  gal- 
lant major  should  have  undergone  them  ;  and,  to  tell 
the  truth,  he  was  not  slow  to  make  the  most  thereof. 
He  never  went  into  a  fight,  and  hardly  so  much  as  heard 


184  MAJOR    BARRIXGTOX'S   MARRIAGE. 

the  snapping  of  a  cap  or  the  drawing  of  a  sabre  while 
his  company  was  at  the  front.  ;  for  they  were  kept 
marching  and  counter-marching,  for  strategic  purposes, 
guarding  supply-trains  or  small  batches  of  prisoners  ;  but 
he  was  a  hero,  for  all  that,  when  he  returned.  He  had 
been  obliged  to  forego  shaving  during  his  fortnight's  ab- 
sence, and  this  gave  him  a  suitably  battered  and  realistic 
look.  I'm  sorry  to  say  he  was  in  no  hurry  about  shaving 
after  he  came  back.  He  deliberately  made  capital  of 
that  stubby  growth  on  his  chin  and  upper  lip,  and  it  lent 
great  effect  to  his  tales  of  suffering  with  mud  and  rains, 
and  beds  of  hard  wood  in  barns,  and  to  the  agony  he 
expressed  at  not  having  met  the  craven  foe. 

Rawsden  and  Miss  Sneef  attempted  to  turn  these  nar- 
ratives to  ridicule,  but  the  effort  failed  signally.  Bar- 
rington  was  a  success.  He  had  always  been  trying  to  be 
one,  on  some  solid  basis  or  other.  Now  he  had  become 
so  on  no  basis  at  all. 


VIII. 

MRS.  MAGILL  was  satisfied  with  her  investment,  but 
she  wished  now  to  make  it  permanent.  In  short,  she 
thought  in  time  that  the  major  should  fulfil  his  promise 
of  marriage.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that,  mean- 
while, his  resplendent  military  renown  had  redoubled  his 
fascinations  for  the  pensive  Natalia  ;  and  that  maiden's 
faithful  admiration  and  devout  sympathy  with  him  in 
the  dangers  to  which  he  had  lately  been  exposed  had 
begun  to  make  an  impression  on  his  simple,  pompous 
and  sanguine  middle-aged  heart.  In  all  this  time  the  two 
women  who  divided  his  affections  and  interests  had  not 


MAJOR  HARRINGTON'S  MARRIAGE.  185 

once  met.  Being  charged  with  their  rival  influences,  it 
almost  seemed  as  if  the  major,  while  uniting  them  in  his 
mind,  had  possessed  a  sort  of  chemical  power  of  keeping 
thorn  apart.  But  now  he  became  extremely  anxious  to 
bring  them  into  each  other's  society.  The  pretext  he 
found  was  that  of  private  theatricals.  He  proposed  to 
Mrs.  Magill  that  an  entertainment  in  this  line  should  be 
gotten  up  at  the  drill-room  of  the  company,  which  was  a 
sort  of  riding-school  arena,  easily  transformed  into  a 
theatre.  She  consented  at  length,  but  only  on  the  un- 
derstanding that  this  was  to  be  Barrington's  last  grand 
frolic  before  settling  down  to  married  life. 

"  Yes,"  said  Barrington,  in  vague  terms  ;  "  I  sha'n't 
want  to  remain  single  any  longer."  But  he  was  a  good 
deal  alarmed  to  find  himself  wondering,  at  that  very 
moment,  which  lady  it  was  that  he  intended  to  marry. 

Mrs.  Magill  and  Natalia  were  made  acquainted,  and 
among  them  the  three  soon  completed  their  plans  for  the 
performance.  The  piece  selected  was  Boucicault's 
farce,  "  Wanted — a  Widow."  The  major  had  pressed 
Mrs.  Magill  to  take  a  part,  but,  with  a  becoming  distaste 
for  publicity,  she  declined,  and  Natalia  was  induced  to 
play  in  her  stead.  Considering  the  title  of  the  farce, 
the  widow's  abstention  was  certainly  judicious  ;  but  1 
think  she  would  have  been  better  pleased  to  see  Natalia 
in  the  role  of  Lady  Blanche  Mbuntjoy,  rather  than  that  of 
the  successful  widow,  Mrs.  Lovebird.  Lady  Blanche 
was  taken  by  Miss  Sneef,  who,  being  young  and  pretty, 
yet  withal  sceptical  by  nature,  made  a  success  of  the 
part.  Mrs.  Magill,  whose  eyes  began  to  survey  Natalia 
in  the  appalling  light  of  a  rival,  after  the  first  interview, 
took  care  to  be  present  at  all  the  rehearsals,  as  you  may 
believe  ;  and  a  little  real  drama,  for  whicli  no  rehearsal 
was  needed,  began  to  move  within  the  fictitious  one. 


186  MAJOR   BARRINGTO^'S   MARRIAGE. 


IX. 


MRS.  MAGILL  was  a  short  and  rather  fleshy  person, 
with  a  bland  countenance,  in  which  the  experiences  of 
her  forty  years — good  and  bad  alike — had  agreed  to  get 
under  shelter  of  a  placid  and  non-committal  tinge  of 
pink,  there  to. make  what  pretence  they  could  of  not  be- 
ing experiences  at  all.  There  was  the  same  discreet, 
uncommunicative  look  about  her  hair,  which  she  wore 
stamped  down  along  her  forehead,  with  the  severe  sim- 
plicity of  a  butter-pat.  Natalia's  face,  on  the  contrary, 
showed  whatever  she  had  been  through.  Thus,  the 
widow  and  the  unmarried  woman  trenched  on  each 
other's  provinces,  and  promptly  took  a  dislike  one  to 
another. 

The  farce  in  hand,  as  all  my  readers  may  not  remem- 
ber, turns  upon  the  fact  that  Henry  Revel  (Harrington), 
having  been  jilted  by  a  lady  who  became  Mrs.  Lovebird, 
has  taken  to  reckless  courses,  and  finally  becomes  a  heavy 
debtor,  in  hiding  from  the  sheriff.  In  this  dilemma  he 
gayly  advertises  for  a  rich  widow,  "  with  immediate 
possessions,"  and  his  whereabouts  thus  come  to  the 
knowledge  of  Amy  Lovebird,  now  widowed,  who  de- 
serted him  originally  only  to  marry  a  rich  man  who  could 
save  her  father  from  ruin.  She  seeks  Harry  at  once,  in 
order  to  explain  and  to  draw  him  back  to  herself. 
When  he  receives  her  response  to  his  advertisement, 
however,  pride  and  resentment  make  him  unwilling  to 
profit  by  her  wealth.  Meanwhile,  Ami/s  friend,  Lady 
Blanche,  plans  a  stratagem  to  test  him,  so  that  it  may 
appear  whether  he  receives  his  former  flame's  advances 
out  of  mercenary  policy,  or  with  the  old-time  affection. 


MAJOR  BARRINGTOK'S  MARRIAGE.  187 

She  persuades  Amy  to  appear  before  him  as  if  in  great 
poverty, .while  she  herself  (Lady  Blanche}  writes  him  a 
letter,  stating  her  fortune  and  a  fictitious  age,  and  re- 
questing a  meeting  to  consider  the  matrimonial  project. 
"When  Harry  meets  Amy  and  hears  this  made-up  story 
of  her  poverty,  although  his  early  love  remains  unabated, 
he  decides  to  see  the  other  widow,  Lady  Blanche,  whose 
letter  he  has  just  received,  to  marry  her,  and  to  use  the 
money  thus  acquired  for  the  relief  of  Mrs.  Lovebird. 
This  decision,  of  course,  makes  him  appear  for  a  time 
false  to  Amy  •  and  the  motive  of  the  piece  is,  accord- 
ingly, that  of  the  hero's  struggle  between  the  powers  of 
love  and  of  money.  Since  he  finally  marries  Mrs. 
Lovebird,  the  superficial  moral  of  the  play  was  favorable 
to  Mrs.  Magill,  considered  with  reference  to  Barrington's 
vacillations,  because  the  major's  affair  with  her  ante- 
dated the  first  springing  up  of  a  sentiment  for  Natalia, 
and,  moreover,  she  was  rich.  So  the  widow  had  no  fear 
as  to  the  moral  influence  of  the  drama  upon  his  mind. 
But  the  deeper  lesson  of  this  amusing  composition  is  that 
of  fidelity  to  love  without  money  ;  so,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  it  had  a  powerful  effect  in  attaching  the  major  to 
Natalia.  At  first  he  thought  little  about  it.  But,  as 
the  rehearsals  went  on,  he  found  that  theatricals,  being 
an  art,  and  having  the  magic  of  art,  sometimes  give  one  a 
strange,  new  interest  in  the  real  person,  exhibited  under 
subtly  novel  circumstances  ;  and  he  began  to  think  it 
would  be  pleasant  to  follow  up  his  imaginary  devotion  to 
Natalia  with  a  real  passion. 


188  MAJOR  BABKINGTON'S  MABRIAOE. 


X. 

IN  proportion  as  this  feeling  of  the  major's  grew,  Mrs. 
Magill  tired  of  seeing  him  perpetually  going  through  the 
farce  with  Natalia,  and  coming  out  as  her  tried  and 
trusted  lover.  She  resolved  to  hasten  the  date  of  the 
performance,  perhaps  also  hoping,  furtively,  that  Natalia 
wouldn't  be  ready,  and  would  therefore  fail  disgracefully. 

On  his  part,  Barrington,  to  whom  the  new  partiality 
for  Natalia  had  made  the  rehearsals  increasingly  pleasant, 
found  also  that  the  conflict  between  this  and  his  promise 
to  Mrs.  Magill  brought  in  an  element  of  painf  ulness. 
He  became  exceedingly  blue,  and  even  treated  the 
widow  morosely. 

"  Zadie,"  said  she,  one  evening,  as  they  walked  home 
from  the  drill-room,  "  what  ails  you  ?  1  thought  you 
were  going  to  get  so  much  amusement  out  of  these  the- 
atricals." 

"  1  wish  I'd  never  gone  into  them  !"  he  answered, 
gloomily. 

"  How  unkind  to  say  that,  after  the  condition  we 
made  about  them  1"  This  allusion  didn't  improve  his 
temper. 

"  I  don't  forget  my  promise,  though  I  am  sorry,"  he 
said,  dubiously. 

"  Sorry  about  the  promise,  you  mean  ?"  asked  the 
widow,  with  an  archness  that  failed  for  want  of  a  street- 
lamp  to  light  it  up. 

"  You  wouldn't  like  it  if  I  should  says  yes,"  he  re- 
torted. 

"  Oh,  if  you're  sorry,"  she  exclaimed,  haughtily, 
"we'll  give  up  the" — here  the  major  became  attentive 
and  eager — "  the  theatricals  altogether  !"  she  concluded. 


MAJOR  HARRINGTON'S  MARRIAGE.  189 

"The  theatricals,"  muttered  he,  disappointed;  "I 
thought  you  were  going  to  say —  But  no  !  We'll  play 
the  farce  out,  and,  when  it's  done,  we'll  have  the  wed- 
ding. Does  that  satisfy  you  ?" 

"It's  very  wrong  of  you  to  talk  of  it  that  way,"  said 
Mrs.  Ma  gill,  too  sagacious  to  lose  her  temper.  "  But  I 
know  you'll  regret  it."  And  so,  holding  him  firmly  by 
the  arm,  she  carried  him  off  to  the  door,  where  they 
parted. 


AT  length,  the  evening  of  the  performance  came,  and 
all  the  independent  cavalry,  and  their  friends,  assembled 
to  look  at  it.  Rawsden  was  unusually  cynical  that  day, 
and  came  near  disabling  Miss  Sneef  for  her  part  by  the 
number  and  variety  of  his  pessimistic  remarks.  But 
this  was  due  merely  to  his  own  inward  trepidation  on  her 
behalf  ;  and  it  was  with  a  strange  whirl  of  by  no  means 
cynical  emotion,  raging  underneath  his  calm  dress-coat 
and  well-starched  shirt-bosom,  that  he  left  her  at  the 
dressing-room,  and  took  his  own  place  in  the  audience. 
As  for  Barrington,  the  contradiction  of  moods  into  which 
he  had  fallen  excited  him  to  great  energy,  and  he  con- 
sequently achieved  a  brilliant  success  in  the  first  part  of 
the  piece.  Mrs.  Magill  sat  refulgent  and  diamond-flash- 
ing in  her  place,  drinking  in  the  praise  of  the  major, 
which  was  murmured  on  all  sides  ;  these  bright  moments 
compensated  her  for  all  the  pain  of  the  rehearsals.  But 
between  the  first  and  second  scenes  the  curtain  fell,  to 
allow  the  arranging  of  a  new  "set."  The  shadow  of 


190  MAJOR   HARRINGTON'S   MARRIAGE. 

that  descending  curtain  was  destined  to  darken  seriously 
the  widow's  fair  prospect. 

Just  as  the  audience  were  getting  impatient  for  the 
second  scene,  an  audible  disturbance  arose  on  the  stage, 
in  the  midst  of  which  the  green  cloth  was  rolled  up, 
revealing  a  pictured  street.  No  one  "  came  on,"  how- 
ever ;  and  as  a  moment  elapsed,  and  the  disturbance  in- 
creased, Mrs.  Magill  suspected  something  wrong.  Then 
Natalia  burst  out  on  the  astonished  spectators,  through 
the  right  entrance,  with  a  distracted  air,  crying  out,  with 
apparent  unconsciousness  of  the  lifted  curtain,  "  What ! 
Major  Barrington  has  cut  his  head  open  ?  Where  ?" 

Some  of  the  audience  began  to  laugh,  several  ladies 
screamed,  and  the  cavalrymen  were  divided  between  a 
wish  to  comfort  their  frightened  guests  and  the  duty  of 
running  to  their  commander's  aid,  when  Barrington  ap- 
peared from  the  sides,  moving  mechanically,  and  with  a 
distinct  wound  on  his  forehead.  At  this  sight  Natalia, 
who  had  but  half  crossed  the  stage,  paused,  screamed 
sharply  and  spread  out  her  hands,  seeking  support. 
Meanwhile  the  stage-manager  had  got  the  curtain  started 
down,  and  it  dropped  silently  upon  the  unexpected 
tableaux. 

By  the  time  it  had  touched  the  boards  Mrs.  Douce  had 
reached  the  dressing-room.  She  now  stood  leaning  over 
her  niece,  who  had  fainted,  and  was  lying  in  a  chair. 
Mrs,  Magill,  being  of  inferior  velocity,  was  much  longer 
in  making  her  way  to  the  stage  through  the  crowd  of 
excited  people  now  hurrying  to  and  fro.  A  hack  had 
already  been  ordered  for  Barrington,  who  was  sitting  be- 
hind the  street  in  Lady  Blanche's  drawing-room,  with 
his  head  bound  up,  and  looking  rather  pale.  The  hero 
of  a  hundred  failures,  he  had  at  last  managed  to  get  a 
genuine  hurt. 


MAJOR  BARRINGTON'S  MARRIAGE.  191 

"  Oh,  horrible,  horrible  !"  cried  Mrs.  Magill.  "  Speak 
to  me,  Zadie  ;  how  did  it  happen  ?  Can  no  one  tell  me  ?" 

"  "We  were  just  getting  up  Lady  Blanche's  chandelier 
in  great  style,"  exclaimed  the  manager,  "when  Major 
Harrington  came  along,  and — " 

"No  more,  no  more,  for  mercy's  sake  !"  entreated 
the  widow,  with  a  shudder. 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  manager,  with  severe  accu- 
racy ;  "he  hit  his  head  against  it." 

"  Mrs.  Douce,"  cried  Mrs.  Magill,  "  run  out  and  get 
my  things  for  me — at  once — please." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  the  landlady,  rather  sharply,  "  but 
I  can't  leave  Natalia."  Here  some  one  came  forward, 
and  said  the  hack  had  arrived. 

"  You  see,"  protested  the  widow,  "  I  must  have  my 
things."  But  Mrs.  Douce  devoted  herself  to  Natalia, 
obliviously. 

Barrington  had  by  this  time  been  got  on  his  feet,  and 
was  walking  slowly  toward  the  stage-door,  the  arm  of  a 
fellow-officer  under  his  own. 

"Major,"  cried  the  exasperated  widow,  "stop!" 
And,  as  she  spoke,  she  stepped  in  front  of  him. 

Barrington  did  stop  ;  but  he  looked  feebly  peevish, 
and  in  a  tone  of  disgust  said,  plainly,  "  Do  let  me  alone, 
can't  you  ?"  There  could  be  no  doubt  as  to  his  words. 

The  conflict  over  his  remains,  which  seemed  likely  a 
moment  before  to  become  obstinate  received  a  check  in 
this  utterance  from,  as  it  were,  the  very  dead.  Mrs. 
Magill  fell  back  in  horror,  and  the  major  was  triumph- 
antly borne  away  with  Natalia. 


193  MAJOR  BARRINGTON'S  MARRIAGE. 


XII. 

THE  farce  was  never  finished  ;  but  the  assembled 
cornoany  set  about  the  dance  which  had  been  planned  to 
succeed  it.  Kawsden  and  Miss  Sneef  enjoyed  this  very 
much,  in  their  superior  way,  and,  in  fact,  the  break- 
down of  the  histrionic  effort  made  those  youthful  misan- 
thropists thoroughly  hilarious.  The  events  of  the  next 
few  days,  after  the  "  caving  in"  of  the  Major's  head  (as 
Rawsden  described  it),  furnished  him  with  still  further 
material  for  entertainment. 

Mrs.  Magill  resumed  the  field  early  the  next  morning, 
seeking  to  visit  her  poor  major.  This  Mrs.  Douce  pre- 
vented her  from  doing  by  powerful  and  imaginative  de- 
scriptions of  Barrington's  condition,  and  citations  from 
medical  authority. 

Mrs.  Magill  then  proposed  to  hire  a  room  in  the 
house.  But  Mrs.  Douce  solemnly  averred  she  had  no 
room  to  spare.  Still,  the  next  day  Mrs.  Magill  came, 
with  a  carriage  full  of  things,  including  light  bedding,  to 
occupy  the  enemy's  country,  and  declared  she  would 
bivouac  in  the  parlor. 

"  But  the  parlor  belongs  to  my  boarders,"  said  Mrs. 
Douce.  "  Use  of  parlor  included,  those  are  the  terms." 

"  Then  I'll  take  the  reception-room." 

"  The  door  is  very  narrow,"  said  Mrs.  Donee,  scruti- 
nizing the  massive  form  of  the  invader  so  insinuatingly 
as  to  make  the  non-committal  pink  in  Mrs.  Magill's  cheeks 
give  place  to  an  angry  red. 

Mrs.  Magill  turned,  and  called  out  of  the  open  door 
to  the  carriage -driver  to  bring  in  the  bedding,  etc. 
"  Recollect,"  she  said,  severely,  to  Mrs.  Douce,  "  he  is 
my  husband  that  is  to  be." 


MAJOR  HARRINGTON'S  MARRIAGE.  193 

The  landlady  looked  inquiringly  at  the  driver,  and 
then,  as  if  correcting  her  impression,  said  :  "  Oh,  the 
major  ?  That  makes  no  difference.  Those  things  shall 
not  come  in  !  Besides,  it  isn't  at  all  certain  that  he  is." 

"  JSTot  certain  ?     How  can  you  dare  ?" 

"He  says  so  himself." 

"  Then   he's   out   of  his   mind,"   said  Mrs.   Magill, 


"  He  was,"  replied  Mrs.  Douce. 

"  1  won't  converse  with  you,"  said  Mrs.  Magill. 

"  Then  please  order  your  man  not  to  bring  in  those 
things." 

But  Mrs.  Magill  refusing,  "/  will  tell  him,"  an- 
nounced Mrs.  Douce,  stepping  out  to  do  so. 

Mrs.  Magill,  with  great  presence  of  mind,  instantly 
shut  the  spring-lock  door  and  began  to  walk  up-stairs. 
.There  was  a  furious  rattling  at  the  door-handle,  from  the 
outside,  followed  by  violent  ringing.  But  no  one  came 
to  open,  until  the  widow  had  gained  the  first  landing. 
Mrs.  Douce,  being  admitted  at  last,  swiftly  mounted 
after  her.  It  was  &  fearful  chase  ;  but  there  was  no  way 
of  heading  off  the  intruder  now. 

They  went  up  another  flight.  But  Mrs.  Douce  over- 
reached her  opponent  by  calling  out,  in  a  loud  voice  : 
"  You  can't  see  him,  Mrs.  Magill  !  Mrs.  Magill  !  MKS. 
MAGILL  !" 

Immediately  after  this  they  heard  the  lock  working  in 
Barrington's  door.  The  major  was  safe  in  his  intrench- 
ments. 

Nothing  daunted,  however,  Mrs.  Magill  strode  for- 
ward and  knocked.  There  was  no  answer  except  a  slight 
cough,  probably  caused  by  the  officer's  sudden  exertion 
in  locking  his  door.  "  Major,"  said  the  widow,  in  a 
gentle  tone,  "  do  you  hear  me  ?"  Echoless  silence 


194  MAJOR  BARRINGTON'S  MARRIAGE. 

received  her  words.  She  began  again,  with  a  consider- 
ably increased  alertness  of  voice  :  "  Major  !  Are  you 
engaged  or  not  ?" 

"  Very  much  so,"  answered  Zadoc  from  within,  and 
with  a  startlingly  robust  and  comfortable  voice  for  an 
invalid. 

"  I  mean,  to  me,"  explained  Mrs.  Magill,  with  annoy- 
ance. "  Mrs.  Douce,  here,  has  the  face  to  declare  that 
you  are  not.  I  wish  the  question  answered  in  her  pres- 
ence. Are  you  engaged  to  be  married  ?" 

11 1  am  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  open  the  door,"  re- 
sponded the  evasive  Barrington.  "  It  fatigues  me  to 
talk  in  this  way,  so  I  hope  you'll  be  satisfied  with  my 
answering  this  one  question." 

"  Well,"  said  the  widow,  more  affably,  "  say  you 
are—" 

"  I  are  engaged  to  be  married,"  promptly  struck  in 
the  major,  with  untimely  jocoseness. 

"Am,  you  mean,"  Mrs.  Magill  corrected.  But 
silence  had  resumed  its  reign  on  the  other  side  of  the 
door. 

"  Very  well,  that  will  do,"  she  concluded,  somewhat 
as  a  prose  Portia  finishing  a  cross-examination  in  a 
modern  law-court  might  have  done.  She  shot  upon 
Mrs.  Douce  a  glance  of  scorn,  saying,  "  1  shall  come 
again  to-morrow,"  and  then  proudly  departed. 


XIII. 

BUT  she  did  not  come  on  the  morrow.     Barrington 

sent  her  a  note,  which  effectually  prevented  her  doing  so. 

"Dear  madam,"  it  said,  "our  remarkable — not  ex- 


MAJOR  HARRINGTON'S  MARRIAGE.  195 

actly  interview,  but  conversation,  this  morning,  may 
have  misled  you.  My  reference  to  an  engagement  of 
marriage  was  to  another  than  the  one  you  had  in  mind — 
in  point  of  fact,  my  very  recent  engagement  to  marry 
Miss  Natalia  Douce. 

"You  will  pardon  the  mental  reservation  in  my  reply, 
when  you  reflect  that  I  made  it  out  of  regard  to  your 
feelings.  Those  feelings  I  am  sorry  to  disturb  in  any 
way,  and  I  believe  you  will  see  that  it  is  the  truest  con- 
sideration for  them  that  leads  me  to  give  up  the  design 
we  once  cherished.  Our  understanding,  too,  was  that 
when  the  farce  was  finished  we  would  marry.  The  farce 
was  never  finished  ;  the  condition  was  not  fulfilled  ;  and 
therefore  our  agreement  is  dissolved.  I  have  just  sent 
in  my  resignation  to  the  company,  and  shall  dispose  of 
the  horse  according  as  you  may  desire.  The  uniform  1 
will  retain  (since  it  would  not  fit  any  one  else),  as  also 
the  respect  for  you,  which  has  long  been  entertained  by 
"  Your  friend, 

"  ZADOC  S.  BAKKINGTON." 

To  this  note  the  major  never  got  any  reply.  In  due 
time,  therefore,  his  marriage  with  Natalia,  being  unim- 
peded, took  place  very  quietly,  and,  after  going  off  for  a 
small  wedding  journey,  the  husband  and  wife  came  back 
to  a  pair  of  Mrs.  Douce's  small  rooms,  and  began  to  live 
in  them. 

Yes  ;  this  corpulent,  middle-aged  sparrow  of  a  major 
had  decided  in  favor  of  idealism — prosaic  though  the 
form  in  which  it  was  presented  to  him — as  against  money 
and  ease  without  honest  affection.  He  threw  aside  the 
only  success  he  had  ever  achieved,  which  was  due  to  the 
opulent  siren,  Mrs.  Magill,  and  fell  back  to  his  old 
shabby  independence,  with  a  poverty-stricken  little  wife 


196  MAJOR  BARRINGTON'S  MARRIAGE. 

to  share  it.  I  don't  say  it  was  good  political  economy  ; 
I  dare  say  it  was  very  bad  sociology  ;  and  perhaps  I 
ought  to  show  how  some  dire  catastrophe  came  upon  him 
in  consequence.  The  only  obstacle  in  the  way  is,  that  it 
didn't.  He  remained  reasonably  happy  ever  after. 

By  this  it  is  not  to  be  understood  that  he  prospered 
materially.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  a  terribly  hard 
time.  There  were  the  old  struggles,  the  old  uncertain- 
ties of  fortune  to  be  faced,  with  new  anxieties  added. 
His  own  opinions  and  his  wife's  were  at  times  far  from 
being  in  unison. 

After  a  time,  too,  he  found  himself  a  father  ;  and, 
though  I  don't  doubt  his  little  infant  girl  brought  him 
compensations,  he  grew  visibly  older.  His  once  cour- 
ageous complexion,  which  1  have  described  as  carrot- 
tinted,  lapsed  slowly  toward  the  hue  of  turnips  when  in 
a  boiled  state  ;  and — melancholy  change  ! — his  dainty 
martial  chin,  with  the  dent  in  the  bottom  of  it,  was  hid- 
den by  a  practical  red  beard,  while  his  hair  became  pro- 
portionately thin  on  top  of  his  head.  If  Mrs.  Magill 
cared  for  revenge  she  probably  took  it  now,  in  the  con- 
templation of  his  hard  career  and  the  alterations  in  his 
appearance.  He  felt  this  a  little,  1  know  ;  for,  as  we 
were  walking  together  one  day  near  Worth's  monument, 
he  suddenly  changed  our  course,  with  a  hasty,  "  May  as 
well  go  this  way  ;"  and  I  perceived  the  wealthy  widow 
coming  toward  us. 

We  were  not  quick  enough  to  escape  her,  and  Bar- 
rington  winced  at  her  expression.  Yet  I  am  equally 
certain  that  he  never  regretted  his  choice. 

Luckily  for  Rawsden's  slight  remaining  toleration  of 
mankind,  he  left  Mrs.  Douce' s  before  the  baby  was 
added  to  the  other  household  ornaments.  Now  that  I 
think  of  it,  Miss  Sneef  had  previously  left  the  house,  and 


MAJOR   BARBiNGTOS'fl   MARRIAGE.  197 

Eawsden's  critical  mood  grew  upon  him  so  rapidly  that 
he,  too,  found  a  change  necessary.  In  fact,  he  followed 
Miss  Sneef. 

Yet  he  continued  to  bestow  a  share  of  his  amused  con- 
tempt upon  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barrington  from  a  distance. 

"  Barrington  got  a  taste  for  the  drama  that  time,"  he 
once  said  to  me,  recalling  the  private  theatricals,  "  and 
he  keeps  it  up  well.  I  think  his  piece  will  have  a  long 
run." 

''What  piece?" 

"The  Ex- Bachelor  and  his  Baby!"  said  the  little 
wretch.  "  A  tragic-comedy — by  the  whole  strength  of 
the  company." 

I  think  I  should  have  kicked  Eawsden  for  this,  but 
that  something  in  his  manner  hinted  an  inconsistent  envy 
of  the  major.  And  he  presently  went  on  to  say  that  as 
for  Miss  Sneef  and  himself,  although  not  believing  at  all 
in  the  necessity  of  sentiment  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
they  had  concluded — since  they  didn't  seem  to  be  able 
as  yet  to  get  tired  of  each  other — that  they  would  try 
marriage,  and  see  what  that  would  do  for  them. 

Such  was  the  distorted  little  tribute  of  this  nil  admi- 
rari  youth  to  the  element  of  real  manliness  he  could  not 
fail  to  see  in  Barrington's  marriage. 


"BAD    PEPPEKS." 


"  You  see,  I  want  to  strike  down  to  Bad  Peppers." 
These  words  were  pronounced  by  the  third  person  at 
my  right  on  the  bench.  The  bench,  it  must  be  ex- 
plained, was  covered  with  red  velvet,  and  situated  in  the 
cabin  of  a  steamer.  And  the  steamer  was  the  Weser, 
bound  for  Bremen. 

I  could  not  imagine  at  the  moment  what  ' '  Bad  Pep- 
pers "  meant ;  and  the  remark — uttered  at  our  first  din- 
ner on  board — came  out  with  such  ludicrous  distinctness, 
in  the  midst  of  the  clatter  at  table,  that  I  made  haste  to 
observe  the  individual  from  whom  it  proceeded.  1  be- 
held a  rough  but  impressive  head,  with  cheeks  of  a  set- 
tled red,  and  beetling  grizzly  hair,  looking  out  over  the 
board  in  a  dogged,  half -perplexed,  but  good-humored 
way,  though  the  owner  of  the  head  was  evidently  un- 
conscious that  he  had  said  anything  open  to  comment. 
He  was  a  man,  I  should  say,  of  forty-six  ;  but  as  I 
looked  at  him  now  in  the  glare  of  the  skylight  above, 
the  simplicity  and  frankness  in  his  face  were  so  marked, 
that  I  could  not  help  imagining  the  short  gray  curls 
turned  to  golden  brown,  and  feeling  the  momentary  pity 
that  comes  over  one  in  looking  at  an  elderly  person  who 
reminds  one  of  childhood,  yet  is  hopelessly  far  removed 
from  it.  I  felt  a  little  sorry  for  a  man  with  this  kind  of 


"BAD  PEPPERS."  199 

a  face  attempting  so  large  a  task  as  crossing  the  ocean  to 
Europe,  and  I  was  a  little  amused  at  the  idea,  too. 

He  was  talking  earnestly  to  my  handsome  friend  Fear- 
loe,  who  sat  on  this  side  of  him  ;  but  I  observed  that'  he 
was  watched  with  a  certain  patronizing  scrutiny  by  a 
young  German  opposite. 

"  Yes,  you  see  1  couldn't  get  rid  of  this  rheumatism 
anywhere,"  he  continued,  "  and  so  I  took  a  friend's  ad- 
vice and  started  for  Europe.  They  say  that  Bad  Peppers 
will  fix  up  the  worst  case  you  ever  saw  better  than  any 
amount  of  medicine.  Anyway,  I'm  going  to  try  it." 

Peppers  as  a  cure  for  rheumatism  !  What  could  he 
mean  ?  And  if  this  was  to  be  the  remedy,  why  go  to 
Europe  to  try  it  ?  But  he  proceeded  : 

"And  that's  the  reason,  you  see,  why  I  want  to  strike 
right  down  to  Bad  Peppers." 

The  mystery  began  to  grow  less  opaque.  Possibly  he 
might  mean  by  "  strike  down"  that  he  wished  to  reduce 
his  diet  to  the  article  in  question  ;  but  I  thought  it  more 
likely  that  Bad  Peppers  was  a  place  which  he  had  made 
his  objective  point.  I  determined  to  ask  Fearloe  at  the 
earliest  opportunity,  and  therefore  drew  him  away  as 
soon  as  dinner  was  over. 

"  Who  is  your  new  acquaintance  ?"  1  inquired. 

"He  reports  himself  as  Steven  Steavens,  a  wholesale 
grocer  from  Philadelphia." 

"And  he's  going  to  Europe  to  cure  his  rheumatism? 
Europe  ought  to  be  nattered,  certainly,"  said  1 ;  and  I  am 
afraid  we  both  laughed  rather  scornfully  at  our  unsuspect- 
ing fellow-traveller,  who  was  pacing  another  part  of  the 
deck  with  a  fierce  meerschaum  pipe  in  his  mouth.  "  But 
tell  me  what  he  means  by  this  Bad  Peppers.  Is  it  a 
place?  I'm  sure  1  never  heard  of  one  by  that  name." 

"Of  course,"  said  Fearloe,   "it's  a  place,  but  that 


200  "BAD  PEPPERS." 

isn't  the  right  name.  He  means  a  resort  of  some 
note  for  invalids  in  the  canton  of  St.  Gall,  Switzerland 
• — Bad  Pfeiffers,  or  Pfeiffers's  Baths — south  of  the  Lake 
of  Constance,  and  near  the  Rhine  :  a  very  picturesque 
spot,  too." 

"  You've  been  there,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Fearloe,  who,  I  may  remark  by  the 
way,  had  been  nearly  everywhere — out  of  America.  He 
was  one  of  those  Yankees  of  the  later  generations  who 
are  born  with  a  genius  for  belying  their  own  nationality. 
When  he  was  in  England,  the  English  would  actually 
claim  him  for  one  of  themselves,  in  the  face  of  positive 
denial  from  his  own  countrymen  ;  though  I  must  do  him 
the  justice  to  say  that  he  made  no  merit  of  this,  and 
never  allowed  newspaper  paragraphs  to  be  written  about 
it.  In  France  he  was  frequently  taken  for  a  French- 
man ;  and  in  Italy  his  fine  statuesque  features  and  rich 
dark  beard,  with  the  aid  of  a  good  Roman  accent,  might 
easily  cause  him  to  pass  for  a  descendant  of  one  of  the 
old  patrician  families.  In  consequence  he  was  very  apt 
to  be  looked  upon  as  a  foreigner  during  his  occasional 
flights  through  his  native  land,  and  possessed  according- 
ly a  remarkable  power  over  the  hearts  of  sundry  repub- 
lican young  women  ;  for  women  love  to  pay  homage  to 
a  judicious  male  superiority,  and  this  is  the  reason  the 
daughters  of  our  nation  delight  in  foreign  manners, 
which  assume  that  grandeur  of  the  male  that  most  Amer- 
icans are  too  polite  and  timid  to  assert.  These  things 
being  so,  I  do  not  wonder  that  Fearloe  was  a  litttle  con- 
ceited on  one  point — his  success  in  impressing  the  female 
heart. 

"  You  speak  so  well  of  the  place,"  I  continued,  after 
a  pause,  "  that  I've  a  great  mind  to  '  strike  down  '  there 
myself.  Do  you  advise  it  ?" 


"BAD  PEPPERS."  201 

"By  all  means,  Middleby,  after  you've  seen  the  Ex- 
position. Paris  will  be  hot,  and  you  will  need  a  change 
of  some  sort." 

"I  hope  it  won't  be  a  change  to  rheumatism,"  I 
replied,  with  another  laugh.  I  had  not  noticed  that 
Steavens  had  come  nearer  to  us  as  I  spoke  ;  but  the  word 
"rheumatism"  seemed  to  attract  him,  and  roused  the 
only  association  with  the  Old  World  which  he  as  yet  en- 
joyed. 

"  You  gentlemen  have  been  to  Europe  before?"  he 
said,  advancing,  and  taking  me  in  with  a  half -inquiring 
nod,  as  if  my  acquaintance  with  so  foreign-looking  a  per- 
son as  Fearloe  was  sufficient  guarantee  of  my  experience 
in  travelling.  "  Now  I  would  consider  it  a  favor,  gen- 
tlemen, if  you  would  come  down  with  me  to  the  smok- 
ing-room. We  can  have  a  little  something  to  drink, 
and  then  we  can  talk  this  thing  over." 

Fearloe  smiled  condescendingly. 

"  This  thing?"  inquired  I  (perhaps  not  with  the  ut- 
most respect,  since  his  sentence  struck  me  as  rather  too 
informal  for  the  very  beginning  of  a  chance  acquaint- 
ance). "You  mean  the  Bad — " 

"  The  whole  of  it,"  broke  in  Mr.  Steavens.  "  The 
European  continent — Bad  Peppers,  Paris,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it.  You've  been  there,  and  know  just  what  a 
fellow  ought  to  see  and  do,  and  now  I'm  away  from  my 
store,  I've  got  a  little  time  to  sit  down  and  think  over 
what  7'11  do.  So,  if  you  don't  object,  gentlemen — " 

"Not  at  all,"  Fearloe  hastened  to  assure  him,  being 
always  ready  for  novel  encounters. 

"I  can't  tell  you  anything  about  Pfeiffers's  Baths," 
said  I,  trying  to  be  companionable  too,  "  for  I  never 
heard  of  them  before  ;  but  whatever  I  do  know  is  at 
your  service." 


202  "BAD    PEPPERS." 

As  we  moved  toward  the  gangway  the  grocer  turn- 
ed to  Fearloe,  and  asked,  in  an  undertone,  ' '  "What 
does  he  call  it  ?  Feiffers  ?  That  ain't  right,  is  it  ? 
My  friend  that  set  me  on  going  there,  he  said  Peppers. 
*  I  thought,  first  off,  he  meant  they  put  red  peppers  in 
the  water  when  you  bathe  ;  but  he  said  no,  it  was  the 
name  of  the  man  that  started  the  place,  he  guessed." 

"  You  can  pronounce  it  either  way,"  said  Fearloe, 
magnanimously. 

"Well,  I  prefer  Peppers,"  declared  Steavens,  with 
an  air  of  relief.  "  Bat  it's  kind  of  queer,  now,  that 
your  friend,  Mr.  What's-his-name — " 

"Middleby,"  I  suggested,  claiming  my  place  in  the 
colloquy. 

" — Middleby,"  he  continued,  without  embarrassment, 
transferring  the  remark  to  me.  "Ain't  it  queer,  Mr. 
Middleby,  that  you  never  heard  of  the  place  ?  I  thought 
everybody  knew  about  Bad  Peppers." 

I  was  foolish  enough  to  be  irritated  at  this  presump- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  childlike  grocer,  and  had  a  great 
mind  to  hint  that  he  preferred  a  wrong  pronunciation 
of  the  name  because  peppers  were  in  the  line  of  his 
business  ;  but  I  contented  myself  with  saying  that  I 
thought  there  were  places  in  Europe  a  good  deal  bet- 
ter known  than  the  baths. 

In  the  smoking-room  we  found  the  young  German 
f  who  had  cast  his  critical  eye  upon  Steavens  at  dinner. 
He  introduced  himself  as  Herr  Scharlach,  and  in  or- 
der to  make  matters  clear,  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
printed  list  of  the  passengers,  which  had  been  distrib- 
uted just  before  we  sailed,  on  which  he  put  a  cross  against 
each  of  our  names  and  his  own,  as  he  had  already  done 
with  several  others  in  the  catalogue.  He  was  a  young 
man  somewhere  in  the  thirties,  with  a  clear  blue  eye 


"BAD   PEPPERS."  203 

that  gleamed  like  a  sword,  a  high  forehead,  and  a  soft 
complexion  deepened  by  tropical  sunburn.  He  could 
have  been  identified  as  a  German  anywhere,  from 
the  air  he  had  of  holding  a  balance  of  power  in  all 
earthly  affairs  ;  and  when  he  checked  off  our  names, 
I  couldn't  help  thinking  that  he  was  collecting  data 
for  use  in  some  future  military  -campaign,  or  else  for  a 
biographical  dictionary  of  the  whole  human  race. 

"Ain't  from  Philadelphia,  are  you?"  queried  Stea- 
vens,  in  a  friendly  tone,  implying  that  the  other  prob- 
ably was  from  that  city,  "  We  have  a  good  many 
Germans  there." 

"  No,"  said  Scharlach,  "  Brazil."  After  which  he 
lit  a  cigarette  he  had  been  rolling  in  his  thin  fingers, 
and  puffed  smoke  from  his  nostrils  in  such  a  way  as 
to  suggest  that  any  aperture  for  confidential  conversa- 
tion was  permanently  closed. 

"Now  here,"  said  our  confiding  acquaintance,  after 
we  had  pledged  one  another  in  several  mild  beverages 
suited  to  a  first  day  out  on  the  briny  deep — "here's 
a  list  of  places  my  friend  made  out  that  I  want  to 
kind  of  take  in  on  my  way  to  the  springs  and  back." 
And  he  produced  from  his  pocketbook  a  narrow 
crumpled  white  paper,  on  which  were  pencilled  the 
weighty  names  of  Paris,  Kome,  Madrid,  Yienna,  St. 
Petersburg,  Dresden,  Antwerp,  Heidelberg,  and  Munich. 
I  give  them  in  the  order  in  which  they  occurred.  "I 
suppose  that's  all  right,  ain't  it  ?"  he  concluded,  glanc- 
ing at  each  of  us  in  turn,  as  if  the  success  of  his  tour 
depended  on  our  good  opinion. 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Fearloe,  "  the  places  are  all  right, 
but  you'll  have  to  travel  a  good  deal  to  include  them, 
all.  I  don't  see  how  you're  to  get  at  them  on  the  way 
to  the  baths." 


204  "BAD  PEPPERS." 

"Oh,  of  course  I  shall  have  to  branch  off  a  little; 
but  then  the  distances  over  there  don't  compare  with 
ours,"  returned  Mr.  Steavens,  hopefully. 

11  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  rejoined  my  friend,  with 
a  malicious  air  of  there  being  some  slight  room  for 
doubt.  "Your  first  jaunt,  from  Paris  to  Rome,  will 
be  five  hundred  miles— five  times  as  far  as  from  Phila- 
delphia to  New  York.  After  that  you  must  count  at 
least  a  thousand  to  Madrid,  a  thousand  more  from  there 
to  Vienna,  and  then  twelve  hundred,  or  over,  to  St. 
Petersburg."  Steavens  almost  turned  pale.  He  hastily 
set  down  the  glass  which  he  was  carrying  to  his  lips. 
61  Besides,"  continued  Fearloe,  "  you  can't  go  to  Rome 
at  all  before  winter." 

"  Hold  on  !''  cried  the  other,  looking  as  if  the  sense  of 
solid  reality  were  slipping  away  from  him.  "  Has  any- 
body got  a  map  here  ?  Let's  settle  one  thing  at  a  time. 
You  know  what  I  want  to  do  first  is  to  strike  down  to 
Bad  Peppers.  I'd  like  to  settle  just  how  that  stands." 

Scharlach  immediately  went  to  his  state-room,  and 
returned  promptly  with  a  large  and  perfect  map  of  the 
Continent,  showing  all  the  railroads  and  post-roads. 
Seeing  this,  I  was  tempted  to  make  some  sarcastic  re- 
mark about  his  thorough  German  equipment  ;  but  I 
remembered  Sedan,  and  shuddered.  He  was  soon 
busily  engaged  in  tracing  out  certain  lines  of  travel  with 
his  long  pink  finger,  the  nail  of  which  was  whitish,  and 
edged  with  black — according  strangely  with  the  Prussian 
national  colors.  I  thought  Scharlach  took  a  peculiar 
interest  in  Pfeiffers,  and  seemed  oddly  familiar  with  it. 
He  furnished  our  fellow-passenger  with  full  details  about 
the  place  ;  how  it  was  situated  on  the  Tamina  River — • 
which  Steavens,  with  a  friendly  reminiscence  of  New 
York  politics,  instantly  transformed  into  "  Tammany  " 


"BAD    PEPPERS."  205 

Biver  ;  how  the  mountains  were  piled  around  its  wild 
gorge  seven  or  eight  thousand  feet  high  ;  how  the  heal- 
ing waters  flow  only  in  summer,  and  are  brought  to  the 
hotel  by  an  aqueduct ;  and  so  on.  All  this  seemed  to 
reassure  the  rheumatic  grocer  very  much  ;  and  having 
got  "  Peppers  "  definitely  fixed  in  his  mind  again,  and 
becoming  familiar  with  the  map,  he  once  more  grew  self- 
confident  about  his  list  of  cities,  and  nothing  could  avail 
to  dissuade  him  from  adhering  to  the  exact  order  in 
which  his  unknown  adviser  had  jotted  them  down.  So, 
for  the  time,  we  abandoned  the  attempt. 

There  is  hardly  a  circle  more  merciless  in  its  criticisms 
than  a  body  of  first-cabin  passengers  on  one  of  the  Euro- 
pean steamers ;  and  Steavens  soon  became  an  object  of 
amusement  to  most  of  us.  His  simplicity,  openness, 
and  perfectly  good-humored,  almost  joyous,  ignorance, 
made  him  an  easy  prey.  But  he  proved  to  be  a  "  good 
sailor,"  and  was  very  gallant  toward  the  ladies.  The 
strangest  part  of  it  was  that  they  rather  liked  him,  and 
took  his  side  against  our  covert  ridicule.  I  suppose  I 
must  admit  that  this,  instead  of  altering  our  o'pinions 
concerning  him,  only  added  a  slight  bitterness  to  a  spirit 
of  fun  which  would  otherwise  have  been  quite  innocent ; 
and  we  got  into  a  way  of  looking  at  him  with  sarcastic 
hostility.  When  I  say  "  we  "  I  refer  more  particularly 
to  Fearloe,  the  German,  Scharlach,  and  myself,  who, 
having  been  thrown  with  him  more  than  the  others  on 
the  first  day  of  the  voyage,  regarded  him  as  a  sort  of 
comic  exhibition  under  our  special  supervision. 

This  rather  absurd  bond  of  union  between  us  led  to 
some  degree  of  intimacy  with  Scharlach,  who  disclosed 
— greatly  to  the  enhancement  of  our  interest  in  Steav- 
ens's  journey — that  he,  likewise,  was  going  to  Pfeiffers. 
His  errand,  moreover,  was  a  romantic  one.  Five  years 


206  "BAD   PEPPERS." 

before  lie  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  orphaned  niece  of 
a  rich  merchant  in  Berlin  ;  but  feeling  his  cause  to  be 
hopeless,  at  least  as  regarded  the  girl's  uncle,  so  long  as 
he  had  nothing  but  his  personal  appearance  and  a  very 
elaborate  education  to  support  his  suit,  Scharlach  had 
preferred  to  retain  the  hold  of  friendship  while  starting 
out  to  better  his  condition  ;  and  accordingly  he  had 
never  made  a  positive  declaration  of  his  passion,  but  had 
gone  to  Brazil,  where  he  succeeded  in  gaining  a  moder- 
ately handsome  fortune.  His  friends  had  kept  him  in- 
formed of  Friiulein  Raslaff's  movements.  As  yet  she 
had  not  married,  from  which  he  augured  hopefully  for 
his  future  ;  but  her  uncle  had  become  an  invalid,  and 
they  were  now  about  resorting  to  PfeifEers  for  his  health, 
whither  Scharlach,  of  course,  purposed  following  them, 
in  order  to  learn  his  fate. 

He  requested  us  urgently  to  say  nothing  about  this  to 
any  of  our  fellow-voyagers,  and  we  even  kept  the  secret 
of  his  destination  from  Steavens.  But  that  could  not 
prevent  Fearloe  and  myself  from  privately  talking  over 
Scharlach's  prospects  a  little.  My  own  opinion  was  that 
such  cool  self-possession  as  his  course  showed  might  not 
impress  a  woman  so  favorably  as  it  did  us,  and  I  said  I 
was  by  no  means  sure  that  Scharlach  would  win,  after  all, 
Fearloe  did  not  agree  with  me  here,  and  stroked  his 
beard  with  an  air  of  restrained  certainty  as  he  replied  : 
"  I  see,  Middleby,  you  fancy  that  women  want  some- 
thing more  startlingly  romantic  than  that.  But  they  are 
very  practical,  too  ;  and  I  think  you'll  find  Miss  Easlaff 
will  appreciate  such  sensible  devotion  as  this  of  our  Bra- 
zilian emigrant."  As  I  have  said,  Fearloe  knew  the 
effect  he  could  produce  on  women,  and  was  proud  of  it ; 
and  when  he  uttered  this  remark  it  was  plain  that  he 
thought  he  had  settled  the  question. 


BAD    PEPPEHS."  207 


II. 


As  I  left  the  steamer  at  Southampton,  and  went  up  to 
London  for  a  few  days,  I  parted  with  Steavens  before 
the  voyage  was  completed.  It  was  nearly  a  week  later 
that  I  met  Fearloe  again,  in  Paris.  "We  went  together 
to  dine  at  a  neat  little  two-franc  place  in  the  Rue  St. 
Honore,  which  we  had  formerly  haunted,  and  during 
dinner  he  suddenly  asked,  with  a  roguish  look,  "  Who 
do  you  think  I  saw  yesterday  ? — Steavens  !"  And 
Fearloe  here  bent  his  head,  bathing  his  beard  in  laugh- 
ter. "  Do  you  know,  he  has  been  in  Paris  three  days 
and  hasn't  gone  near  the  Exposition  ?" 
**  "Well,  that  shows  a  healthy  independence,"  said  1. 
"  Is  he  studying  the  Louvre  ?" 

"  No,"  was  the  answer  ;  "  he  has  discovered  some- 
thing far  more  important  than  the  Louvre  or  the  Exposi- 
tion— something  which  seems  to  reward  him  for  the 
whole  trip." 

"  What  can  that  be  ?"  I  queried,  rather  blankly. 

"He  has  discovered,"  said  Fearloe,  "  that  Paris  is 
the  place  to  buy  skirts  in  /" 

This,  it  appeared,  was  the  topic  which  had  engrossed 
Steavens's  mind  when  Fearloe  met  him.  The  erratic 
man,  after  reaching  Bremen,  had  abruptly  decided  to 
come  over  to  the  French  capital,  which  he  might  have 
done  much  more  easily  and  cheaply  from  Southampton  ; 
and  the  result  of  this  expensive  detour  had  been  a  kind 
of  shirt-intoxication.  "  You've  no  idea,"  added  Fear- 
loe, "  how  neatly  he  has  gotten  himself  up.  He  really 
is  making  progress.  And  the  magnificence  of  the  fel- 
low !  Why,  he  says  he  shall  merely  take  a  single  run 


208  "BAD   PEPPERS." 

through  the  Exposition,  and  leave  all  the  rest  of  Paris 
till  after  he  has  been  to  Pfeiffers." 

"  Fearloe,"  I  said,  with  a  measure  of  solemnity, 
"  don't  scoff  at  a  man  like  that.  I  never  before  have 
met  an  American  with  quite  so  much  originality  in  his 
treatment  of  Europe.  He  must  be  a  genius." 

Nevertheless,  we  continued  to  laugh  at  him,  with  that 
superiority  of  being  less  naif  and  independent  than  he 
which  so  oddly  seems  to  us  a  desirable  thing  nowadays. 
And  if  any  one  at  that  time  had  hinted  that  Steven 
Steavens,  with  his  want  of  reserve  and  complete  in- 
difference to  what  is  known  as  culture,  possessed  quali- 
ties of  character  more  to  be  admired  than  our  own,  we 
should  not  have  taken  the  trouble  even  to  smile  at  the 
critic. 

1  did  not  happen  to  meet  Steavens  while  in  Paris  ; 
but  in  August  I  finally  acted  on  Fearloe' s  chance  hint 
aboard  ship,  and  went  to  Pfeiffers  myself,  where  1  found 
not  only  our  enthusiast  in  shirts,  but  also  Scharlach  and 
Miss  Kaskff,  together  with  that  young  lady's  uncle,  a 
shrivelled  little  old  man,  who  had  the  air  of  being  put 
away  to  keep  in  his  thick  white  hair  and  whiskers,  like  a 
dried  beetle  in  cotton-wool.  To  the  rest  of  us,  indeed, 
the  old  gentleman  was  of  no  more  account  than  a  beetle, 
and  appeared  to  have  as  little  influence  on  the  lives 
around  him  as  an  insect  might.  But,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  though  he  was  so  nearly  dead,  and  scarcely  stirred 
a  limb,  he  clutched  three  lives  in  his  faded  fingers,  and 
held  them  fast  there — his  niece's  life,  Scharlach's  life, 
and  Steavens's  life.  For  I  was  not  long  in  discovering 
that  my  rheumatic  pilgrim  had  fallen  in  love  with  Fra'u- 
lein  Kaslaff  almost  at  first  sight.  He  himself  took  good 
care  that  I  should  not  remain  blind  to  the  fact.  He 
drew  me  aside,  and  poured  his  tale  into  my  ear,  though 


"BAD    PEPPEKS."  209 

with  somewhat  more  reserve  than  he  had  shown  on  the 
steamer  in  discussing  his  plans  of  travel. 

"  How  long  has  this  been  going  on  ?"  I  inquired,  as 
we  walked  together  up  and  down  the  hotel  terrace  over- 
looking the  wild  and  picturesque  valley. 

"Three  weeks  and  a  half,"  he  answered.  "  It's  a 
short  time,  and  it  seems  like  a  short  time.  I've  read  in 
the  story  papers  that  when  a  man's  in.  love,  a  few  days 
seem  to  him  like  years,  and  so  forth.  But  I  don't  be- 
lieve it.  1  know  exactly  how  long  I've  been  here,  and 
yet  there's  no  doubt  about  it,  I'm  in  love  with  that 
young  lady,  and  am  going  to  make  her  my  wife  if  I  can. 
The  story  papers  are  wrong,  and  I'm  right." 

I  couldn't  help  reflecting  that  this  was  the  same  inde- 
pendence I  had  praised  to  Fearloe.  "  The  man  has  the 
faculty  of  knowing  exactly  what  he's  about,"  thought  I, 
"and  that  goes  a  good  way  toward  securing  success." 
Yet  it  seemed  preposterous  that  he  should  have  the  least 
chance  with  a  woman  so  far  removed  from  him  by  tastes 
and  traditions  as  Friiulein  EaslafE.  I  said  to  him  merely, 
"  Have  you  spoken  to  her  ?" 

"  I've  tried  to  feel  my  way,"  was  his  reply.  "  But 
that  uncle  of  hers — he's  an  old  potato-bug,  sir.  He's 
worse  than  a  potato-bug.  I  don't  know  what  to  call 
him.  He  won't  let  any  one  come  near  her,  and  yet  he 
don't  seem  to  take  any  pleasure  in  her  himself.  He 
looks  just  about  dead,  but  1  tell  you  it's  only  shamming  ; 
the  minute  another  man  talks  to  Miss  Raslaff,  he  wakes 
up  ;  it  puts  life  into  him,  and  he  flies  around  sharp. 
This  is  a  good  country  to  operate  in,  though  ;  he  can't 
take  the  walks  we  do  with  parties  sometimes — up  to  Soli- 
tude, and  the  Belvedere,  and  around.  I'd  just  like  to 
see  him  in  the  gorge  once  ;  that  would  finish  him." 

The  gorge  was  a  very  peculiar  and  rather  perilous  cav- 


210  "BAD   PEPPERS." 

ern,  higher  up  in  the  valley  through  which  the  Tamina 
runs. 

"  Then  it's  only  the  uncle  that  troubles  you  ?"  I  que- 
ried. "  You  don't  feel  afraid  of  Scharlach  ?" 

Steavens  paused,  looking  anxious  for  an  instant. 
Then  the  child-like  expression  which  I  had  marked  on 
my  first  glimpse  of  him  came  out  strongly  again.  "  Do 
you  think  he'd  be  mean  enough  to  stand  in  my  way  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  But  suppose  you  are  standing  in  his  ?"  I  returned. 
'  Steavens  apparently  considered  this  an  unnatural  view 
to  take.  "  Scharlach  can  get  along  by  himself  all 
right,"  he  asserted.  "  He  might  be  disappointed,  arid 
it  wouldn't  ruin  him.  But  me — why,  take  me,  and 
what  am  I  without  her  f  "  I  must  admit  that  this  hum- 
bleness touched  me  with  its  pathos,  and  I  began  to  range 
myself  on  Steavens's  side.  Then  he  concluded,  without 
any  pathos  at  all,  "  Well,  I've  got  as  good  a  right  to  try 
as  he  has,  any  way,  and  I'm  bound  to  win  in  the  end." 

At  length,  wishing  to  soften  a  possible  disappoinment, 
I  thought  I  ought  to  tell  him  how  long  Scharlach  had 
been  hoping  to  gain  Miss  RaslafPs  heart.  The  informa- 
tion startled  him  considerably  ;  but  after  a  few  moments' 
silence  he  struck  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  exclaimed, 
"  Well,  here  we  are  !  He's  rich  and  I'm  rich  ;  let  her 
choose  between  us  for  something  else.  If  he  hadn't 
made  any  money  out  there,  I'd  say  to  him,  '  Here,  my 
man,  I've  got  the  best  of  you,  so  I'll  stand  by,  and  you 
can  just  walk  in  and  try  your  chances  first.'  But  seeing 
we're  neck  and  neck  on  that,  I  don't  know  that  there's 
anything  to  do  but  go  ahead." 

And  go  ahead  he  assuredly  did  from  that  hour.  He 
astounded  the  old  uncle  by  remonstrating  with  him 
directly  against  his  supervision  of  Miss  Raslaff.  "It 


"BAD  PEPPERS."  211 

ain't  fair,"  he  said.  "  You  don't  know  how  to  manage 
things  in  this  country.  1  don't  say  a  woman  ought  to 
vote  ;  but  anyway  she  ought  to  have  a  right  to  listen  to 
a  man  when  he  wants  to  tell  her  what  he  thinks  of  her. 
Do  you  suppose  I  could  tell  you  ?"  (With  a  glance  by 
no  means  politic  in  its  contempt  at  the  desiccated  little 
figure  before  him.)  "  And  how  am  I  to  talk  to  her 
about  it  when  you  are  around  ?" 

The  result  of  this  attack,  which  he  made  in  my  pres- 
ence, was  a  violent  outbreak  from  the  old  man  ;  and  the 
next  day  Steavens  was  asked  to  meet  Miss  Raslaff  and 
her  uncle  in  their  salon,  to  receive  from  the  young 
woman  herself  a  confirmation  of  her  uncle's  objection  to 
receiving  any  attentions  from  him.  The  girl  was  pale, 
but  composed  and  very  beautiful.  I  could  not  make  out 
whether  or  not  she  had  taken  any  fancy  to  my  brusque 
compatriot,  but  she  acted  her  part  firmly.  When  at  last 
she  said,  in  pure  English,  "  My  uncle  is  right ;  you  must 
not  seek  my  acquaintance  any  more — more  ardently  ;  let 
us  be  quite  as  we  were  before,"  I  declare  so  sweet  a  sus- 
picion of  a  blush  came  over  .her  cheeks,  and  her  voice 
died  away  so  delicately,  like  a  soft  echo  heard  among  the 
very  hills  around  us,  that  I  almost  fell  in  love  with  her 
myself.  A  great  change  instantly  came  over  Steavens. 
All  his  jauntiness,  his  unreserve,  his  child-like  confi- 
dence, were  extinguished  at  a  blow.  After  a  moment 
he  collected  his  voice,  and  said,  with  great  gentleness, 
"  Miss  Raslaff,  1  will  never  do  anything  you  ask  me  not 
to,  so  far  as  speaking  is  concerned  ;  but  that  won't  pre- 
vent my  thinking  about  you  just  as  much  as  ever,  and  I 
shall  keep  just  as  near  the  place  where  you  stay  as  I  can." 

This  was  the  end  of  the  interview,  and  I  thought  my 
countryman  had  the  best  of  it.  He  •  was  very  melan- 
choly, though,  while  I  remained  at  the  baths  ;  and  the 


212  "BAD    PEPPERS." 

savage  beauty  of  the  place — the  rough  stream  roaring  out 
of  the  cavern  against  whose  walls  of  black  calcareous 
rock,  glittering  here  and  there  with  feldspar,  the  faint 
Alpine  rose  bloomed  pensively,  the  shaggy  heights  above 
the  hotel,  and  the  glimpses  of  snowy  peaks  in  the  dis- 
tance— was  not  suited  to  restore  his  cheer.  One  day  we 
went  into  the  gorge,  with  its  rocky  walls  rising  two  or 
three  hundred  feet,  and  gradually  closing  together  above, 
where  a  bridge  of  planks  cornered  into  the  solid  stone 
runs  for  a  distance  of  six  thousand  paces  to  the  springs, 
slippery  all  the  way  from  the  flying  river- foam.  It  was 
gloomy  and  depressing  as  a  scene  from  the  Inferno,  and 
bad  for  a  rheumatic  patient,  as  I  reminded  Steavens  ; 
but  he  shook  his  head  mournfully,  and  said  he  didn't 
care.  What  was  worse  was  the  danger  of  missing  a 
foothold  on  the  wet  and  mossy  planks,  and  so  being 
precipitated  into  the  wild  stream  beneath ;  and  I 
breathed  more  easily  when  we  came  out  safely  again. 
But  it  struck  me  that  this  would  be"  a  fearful  place  for 
two  angry  rivals,  such  as  Steavens  and  Scharlach  now 
were,  to  meet  in. 

It  so  happened  that  Scharlach  that  very  day  came  to 
me  with  his  tale  of  despair.  Thinking  the  field  was  his 
own,  after  Steavens's  discomfiture,  he  had  formally  pro- 
posed for  Miss  Raslaff's  hand,  and  had  been  rejected. 
He  could  not  understand  it.  He  had  addressed  the 
young  lady  with  her  uncle's  permission,  and  she  had  re- 
fused him.  1  gathered  from  what  he  said  that  he  had 
pressed  his  claim  as  a  matter  of  right,  that  he  considered 
himself  to  have  bought  her  love  by  long  patience  and 
the  accumulation  of  a  competence,  and  had  put  forward 
this  theory  with  undue  bluntness  ;  for  he  confessed  that 
she  had  dismissed  him  with  a  cold  anger  and  disdain  that 
left  no  hope.  We  were  sitting  on  the  great  stone  steps 


"BAD    PEPPERS."  213 

hewn  in  the  height  above  the  hotel  as  he  told  me  this. 
"^To,"  he  cried,  springing  to  his  feet,  at  the  end,  in  a 
sort  of  fury.  "  If  she  had  shown  heat  of  temper,  I 
might  have  kept  up  hope.  But  she  petrified  me  with 
her  contempt.  1  am  no  better  than  these  rocks. "  He 
ground  his  teeth  as  he  spoke,  looking  down  at  the 
hostelry,  sunk  at  a  fearful  depth  below  us.  Then  he 
seized  a  heavy  stone  from  the  earth,  and  flung  it  down 
the  steep,  madly  crying,  "  Yes,  1  am  stone  now,  and 
there  goes  my  heart  rolling  down  to  crush  you  !"  It 
stopped  before  it  had  gone  far  ;  but  the  frenzied  action 
was  enough  to  show  that  the  man  had  lost  his  balance. 
The  pent-up  force  of  years,  so  well  controlled  till  now, 
had  broken  forth  at  a  bound,  and  was  carrying  him 
away.  "  And  it  was  that  fool  from  America,  that  friend 
of  yours,"  he  added,  fiercely,  turning  upon  me  all  at 
once,  as  if  I  were  an  enemy — "  it  was  he  that  did  this. 
It  is  because  he  is  a  novelty,  and  because  her  uncle  op- 
poses it,  that  she  has  taken  a  fancy  to  him,  and  thrown 
aside  the  man  who  was  a  slave  to  her  for  eight  years. 
That's  it,  1  am  sure.  Take  him  away  !  Take  your 
American  away  !" 

I  need  not  say  that  1  did  not  obey  this  command  ;  but 
I  did  take  myself  away.  The  truth  is,  the  situation  was 
getting  altogether  too  serious  for  my  liking.  Yet,  after 
I  had  gone,  I  felt  an  incessant  curiosity  to  know  how  the 
affair  had  resulted.  I  heard  nothing  more  for  some 
time,  until  I  came  across  an  acquaintance  during  the 
winter,  who  had  met  Steavens  in  Paris  again.  This  gen- 
tleman was  telling  me  how  Steavens  had  been  to  Rome 
early  in  the  winter,  and  now  went  about  complaining 
that  it  was  a  very  dirty,  one-horse  town,  which  couldn't 
compare  with  Philadelphia.  He  also  reported  Steavens 
as  gaining  some  notoriety  ftfr  his  romantic  attachment  to 


214  "BAD   PEPPERS." 

a  young  German  lady,  whom  1  had  no  difficulty  in 
recognizing  as  Friiulein  Raslaff.  It  appeared,  therefore, 
that  he  had  as  yet  made  no  headway  ;  but  1  indulged  in 
a  sense  of  approval  when  I  learned  that  he  was  studying 
hard,  to  enlarge  his  education  and  his  knowledge  of 
European  things.  Still,  my  acquaintance  described  him 
as  a  man  who  could  never  become  anything  but  an 
American.  He  had  taken  the  baths  under  the  necessity 
of  improving  his  health  ;  he  was  trying  to  take  European 
manners,  in  the  same  way,  for  the  sake  of  improving  his 
chances  with  Fraulein  Raslaff.  Yet  he  remained  im- 
mutably hostile  to  everything  foreign,  and  to  prolong  his 
stay  abroad  was,  therefore,  the  strongest  sort  of  devotion 
he  could  have  shown. 


III. 


FEAELOE  knew  nothing  of  these  events,  having  gone 
to  Egypt  for  the  winter.  But  more  than  a  year  after- 
ward, when  1  had  been  at  home  for  some  time,  I  was 
one  day  telling  a  lady  at  a  dinner  party  something  about 
Steavens's  eccentricities  and  absurdities,  when  she  ex- 
claimed :  "  Oh,  I  have  heard  of  that  man  before  ! 
Your  friend  Mr.  Fearloe  was  telling  me  about  him." 

I  was  decidedly  annoyed  by  this,  because  I  had  fre- 
quently made  an  anecdote  of  Steavens  with  great  effect, 
and  now  here  was  Fearloe  spoiling  my  fun  by  telling  it 
in  advance. .  Of  course  1  had  confined  myself  to  narrat- 
ing the  rheumatic  pilgrim's  strange  plan  of  travel,  his 
excitement  about  Parisian  shirts,  and  his  unique  view  of 
Rome— things  which  invariably  proved  highly  amusing 


"BAD    PEPPERS."  215 

— and  said  nothing  of  his  romance.  I  now  questioned 
my  companion  at  dinner,  to  see  if  I  could  learn  anything 
more  about  that  part  of  his  history,  but  1, could  get  no 
information  on  that  subject.  My  irritation  continued  all 
the  evening,  for  it  is  no  slight  matter  when  a  man  who 
painfully  hoards  materials  for  small  conversation,  and 
uses  them  frequently,  finds  an  insidious  friend  depriving 
him  of  them.  But  1  had  an  ample  revenge  upon  Fearloe 
afterward,  as  you  shall  see.  When  I  next  saw  him, 
which  was  some  months  later,  he  had  an  experience  to 
recount  which  certainly  put  him  at  my  mercy.  I  will 
tell  it  in  his  own  words. 

"  I  was  staying  at  North  Con  way  for  a  few  days,  late 
in  July,  and  there  was  a  most  beautiful  woman  there.  I 
hardly  know  whether  to  call  her  girl  or  woman,  Mid- 
dleby,  there  was  such  an  immortal  freshness  about  her 
face  and  figure,  combined  with  a  reflective  sadness  that 
showed  she  had  had  more  than  a  girl's  experiences.  She 
dressed  in  black  ;  it  was  a  cool  thin  black,  that  looked — 
perhaps  on  account  of  the  calm,  sweet  face  above  it — 
more  airy  and  summer-like  than  the  most  studied  of  the 
country  costumes  worn  by  other  ladies  at  the  hotel ;  and 
she  wore  bracelets  and  a  pin  of  Irish  bog-stone  set  in 
ebony,  that  harmonized  deliciously  with  her  personality. 
You  know  how  that  sort  of  stone  sparkles,  like  a  clouded 
diamond.  "Well,  there  was  something  about  its  dim, 
shrouded  flash  that  was  just  like  the  mystery  in  her  pale 
face  with  its  surroundings  of  black.  It  struck  into  me 
very  deep,  and  excited  a  desire  to  pierce  the  mystery,  to 
find  out  what  her  face  meant,  and  what  was  at  her  heart 
— and  perhaps  to  place  myself  in  the  heart,  too.  I'll 
own  it  frankly.  You  know  I'm  not  susceptible,  though 
I've  generally  made  my  way  pretty  well  with  the 
ladies."  (Here  a  flash  of  Fearloe's  old  self-complacence 


216  "BAD   PEPPERS." 

on  this  point  came  to  light,  but  quickly  died  out  again.) 
"  I  have  always  cared  more  for  foreign  women,  though, 
than  for  our  own  ;  and  this  girl  or  woman  was  a  Ger- 
man, so  I  was  doubly  taken  with  her.  Her  name  was 
set  down  on  the  register  as —  Well,  1  won't  tell  you 
what  the  name  was,  just  at  present,  but  it  was  registered 
in  such  a  way  that  1  couldn't  tell  whether  she  was  maid, 
wife,  or  widow.  I  fixed  on  the  last,  in  my  own  mind, 
from  her  wearing  black.  There  was  no  one  with  her  ; 
none  of  the  people  in  the  hotel,  with  whom  I  talked, 
knew  anything  about  her.  There  could  be  no  question 
that  she  was  rich  ;  but  that  was  all  1  could  find  out  con- 
cerning her. 

"It  was  a  delicate  business,  as  you  can  imagine,  to 
make  her  acquaintance  in  the  face  of  such  a  state  of 
things  ;  but  I  managed  it,  fortunately,  through  doing 
her  a  little  service  on  the  *  piazza,'  and  from  that  I  went 
on  to  press  my  society  upon  her  cautiously.  In  a  few 
days  we  were  on  very  good  terms,  and  took  a  few  of  the 
customary  walks  and  drives  in  the  neighborhood,  with 
other  persons  at  first,  and  then  alone.  I  was  puzzled  to 
find  her  so  easy  as  to  this,  being  a  foreigner  ;  but  I  be- 
lieve I  convinced  her  of  my  trustworthiness,  and  she 
must  have  found  out  easily,  from  my  acquaintances  in 
the  place,  just  who  I  was.  Then  she  seemed  to  have 
outgrown  foreign  prejudices  in  some  way  ;  and  I  con- 
fess, besides,  that  I  accounted  for  it  at  the  time  by  fancy- 
ing that  I  had  begun  to  make  some  impression  upon  her. 

"  1  determined  there  shouldn't  be  any  doubt  about  it. 
Yes,  it  was  a  serious  matter,  Middleby  ;  1  had  come  to  a 
point  when  1  meant  to  offer  myself  to  her  the  very  next 
day.  1  got  her  consent  to  go  to  Artists'  Falls,  where  I 
meant  to  lay  my  passion  before  her.  Hideous  name,  by 
the  way— Artists'  Falls  !"  broke  off  Fearloe,  testily. 


"BAD    PEPPERS."  217 

"  No  affair  could  have  prospered  in  a  spot  with  such  a 
shoppy  name." 

lie  relapsed  into  gloomy  reflections,  from  which  1 
roused  him,  insisting  that  the  story  should  be  finished. 

11  It  was  the  evening  before  our  intended  excursion," 
he  then  went  on.  "  She  and  I  were  sitting  on  a  retired 
part  of  the  piazza,  just  about  sunset.  Everything  about 
us  was  rarely  beautiful  ;  the  flush  of  the  evening  just 
dying  away  from  old  Rattlesnake,  and  the  line  of  the 
great  peaks  at  the  distant  head  of  the  valley,  with  Wash- 
ington's dome  in  the  midst,  looking,  to  the  fancy — as 
you  have  probably  seen  them — like  giant  ghosts  of  the 
great  men  they  commemorate.  Then,  across  the  inter- 
vale, with  its  hundreds  of  little  brooks  and  its  soft  elms, 
we  looked  at  White-horse  Cliff,  and  that  waterfall  that 
seems  to  flutter  from  the  distant  hill-side  like  a  white 
banner.  You  remember  ?  A  single  star  was  poised 
above  it.  I  shall  never  forget  that  scene.  It  came  upon 
me  with  a  kind  of  surprise,  after  all,  that  we  could  have 
anything  so  lovely  here,  and  I  began  contrasting  it  with 
Europe.  I  wanted  to  hint  something  about  going  back 
there,  you  know — lead  up  in  a  sort  of  way  to  my  in- 
tended declaration  in  the  morning.  So  it  was  natural 
that,  in  talking  of  the  other  side,  and  the  voyage,  and  all 
that,  1  should  begin  to  tell  her  about  that  odd  fellow  on 
the  Weser  when  we  went  over,  you  know — Steavens." 

"  Miserable  man  !"  I  exclaimed,  at  this  point,  remem- 
bering my  discomfiture  at  that  dinner.  "  You  told  her, 
and  then  you  found  she  was  some  one  I  had  already  met 
and  told  before  ?" 

Fearloe  glared  at  me  in  amazement,  then  slowly 
smiled  in  a  melancholy  mariner,  and  shook  his  head. 
"Don't  be  childish,  Middleby,"  said  he;  "  and  please 
don't  interrupt  me.  1  fancy  I  know  something  more 


218  "BAD    PEPPERS." 

about  Steavens  than  you've  ever  told.  This  particular 
time  I'm  describing  to  you  I  was  surprised  to  find  that 
my  listener  didn't  seem  to  enter  into  the  fun  of  the 
thing.  1  didn't  mention  his  name,  yet  I  almost  sus- 
pected she  knew  something  about  the  man.  But  as  she 
didn't  relish  the  absurd  side  of  him,  I  thought  I'd  give 
her  a  proper  dose  of  the  serious.  I  went  on  to  impart 
what  I  had  learned  about  a  desperate  love  affair  of  his  at 
Bad  Pfeiffers  ;  and  this,  by  the  by,  is  news  to  you,  Mid- 
dleby." 

"  Not  quite,"  I  said,  with  a  vain  smile.  (It  must  be 
kept  in  mind  that  Fearloe  and  I  had  claimed  a  joint 
ownership  in  Steavens  as  a  comic  spectacle,  and  I  was 
jealous  of  any  other  kind  of  property  in  him  as  a  senti- 
mental one.) 

"No?"  rejoined  Fearloe,  rather  surprised,  but  cool. 
"  Well,  then,  you  can  judge  how  flat  I  felt  on  finding 
that  the  beginning  of  his  romantic  episode  didn't  seem  to 
strike  her  much  more  than  the  rest  I  had  said  about  him. 

"  '  You  seem  rather  to  despise  your  compatriot,'  she 
said,  when  I  had  got  as  far  as  telling  her  what  I  had 
heard  about  his  rivalry  with  Scharlach  for  the  favor  of  a 
young  lady  whom  they  met  at  the  baths.  '  But  why 
shouldn't  he  feel  the  same  love  and  devotion  that  another 
might,  even  if  he  were  not  the  most  accomplished  of  his 
nation  ?  ' 

"  I  answered,  c  Ah,  that  is  like  you,  to  defend  a  man 
for  holding  a  generous  sentiment.  It  is  to  be  hoped  you 
would  be  equally  kind  in  judging  a  less  out-and-out 
American  who  dared  to  love  one  of  your  race.'  (I  imag- 
ined she  blushed  just  there.)  '  But  if  you  had  seen  this 
man  Steavens,  you  would  understand  just  how  I  look  at 
him.  You  don't  know  much  yet  about  such  raw  speci- 
mens of  my  kind. ' 


"BAD    PEPPERS."  .          219 

"  The  fact  is,  Middleby,  I  put  something  of  a  sneer 
into  iny  words.  I  was  angry  at  her  liking  the  man  even 
in  fancy.  However,  I  finished  my  story. 

"  '  He  certainly  was  very  devoted  ;  '  I  admitted  that. 
'  He  was  quite  as  brave  as  the  other  man. '  ' 

"  '  No  braver,  you  think  ? '  asked  she,  quietly,  with  a 
tone  I  did  not  comprehend. 

"  '  You  shall  decide,'  said  I.  '  The  sequel  was  this  : 
My  German  gentleman,  Scharlach,  got  perfectly  raving 
mad,  I'm  told.  He  looked  upon  the  lady  as  his  absolute 
right,  and  couldn't  be  quieted;  while  Steavens  behaved 
so  calmly  that  he  began  to  get  on  terms  with  the  lady 
and  her  uncle  again,  even  after  his  rebuff.  If  you  have 
ever  been  at  Pfeiffers,'  I  said  to  her,  '  you  know  the 
gorge  of  the  Tamina  ;  but  you  can't  guess  what's  com- 
ing. It  happened,  one  day,  that  Steavens  went  in  there, 
when  Scharlach  had  already  gone  to  the  spring,  and  was 
coming  back  along  the  foot-bridge.'  I  can  tell  you, 
Middleby,  she  looked  interested  when  I  came  to  this — 
just  as  you  do  now.  She  was  startled,  too.  '  Now,  by 
the  strangest  coincidence,  the  obdurate  uncle  and  his 
niece  also  went  down  there  shortly  afterward,  not  know- 
ing that  either  of  the  rivals  was  in  the  cave.  They  had 
gone  some  little  way  along  the  dangerous  path,  when 
they  heard  a  terrible  shout,  like  the  cry  of  a  wild  man. 
They  tried  to  make  haste  forward  to  see  what  it  meant, 
after  the  first  moment  of  terror,  and  came  in  sight  of  the 
two  men  just  in  time.  Scharlach  was  making  a  rush 
upon  Steavens,  who  stood  perfectly  still,  with  a  pale 
face,  but  resolute  and  terribly  stern. 

"  '  He  braced  himself  as  well  as  he  could.  The  shock 
came.  There  was  a  stout,  short  struggle,  and  suddenly 
Scharlach  went  over,  plunging  toward  the  rough  torrent 
full  of  rocks,  and  was  lost. ' 


220  "BAD  PEPPERS." 

"  Then,  Middleby,  you  should  have  seen  that  woman's 
eyes  as  she  sat  there  in  the  twilight.  How  they  flashed, 
as  she  rose  in  her  chair  !  Yet  there  was  an  intense  pain 
in  her  expression.  'This  is  too  terrible,'  she -said. 
'  But  no  ;  I  must  speak  now.  Mr.  Fearloe,  did  the 
person  who  told  you  this  story  also  tell  you  how,  when 
Scharlach  fell,  Steven  tried  to  hold  him — tried  to  save 
the  man  who  had  just  been  seeking  his  life  ?  Ah,  there 
his  true  and  great  nobility  were  seen  !  ' 

"'Good  heavens,  madam,'  cried  I,  'who  are  you? 
You  saw  them  ?  Then  you  must  be — ' 

"  Just  then,  Middleby,  the  coach  from  the  station  had 
come  up,  and  the  passengers  were  getting  out.  Madame 
was  exclaiming,  without  heed  to  my  questions,  '  Oh,  I 
cannot  bear  this  !  That  scene  all  comes  back  to  me. 
Steven  !  Steven  !  why  are  you  not  here  ? '  And,  as  if 
in  answer  to  her  words,  the  man  came  up  behind  her 
with  his  travelling-bag  in  his  hand.  I  felt  as  if  light- 
ning had  struck  me  !  But  to  her,  calmness  returned  in 
an  instant.  She  rose,  and  with  her  arm  in  his  she  said, 
coldly,  '  Steven,  do  you  remember  Mr.  Fearloe  ? '  He 
recalled  me  at  once,  and  started  to  take  my  hand.  But 
she  checked  him,  and  said  to  him,  while  looking  at  me 
like  ice,  '  Ah,  it's  a  pity  you  remember  him,  for  you 
must  learn  now  to  forget  him  ! '  And  with  that  she 
wheeled  away,  carrying  him  with  her." 

"It  was  Miss  Raslaff,"  I  cried.  "  And  how  did  it 
happen  you  didn't  know  her  ?" 

' '  I  had  forgotten  the  name.  Ah,  my  boy,  I  have 
been  fearfully  punished.  I  had  a  conceited  contempt 
for  that  man,  and  see  how  it  has  been  visited  on  me." 

"  Then  she  has  married  him  ?" 

"  By  this  time,  yes.  She  clung  to  her  savage  old 
uncle  till  he  died,  then  came  over  to  marry  Steavcns, 


"BAD  PEPPEHS."  221 

though  by  condition,  of  the  will  she  must  forfeit  all  her 
uncle's  money  in  doing  so." 

"Fearloe,"  I  remarked,  after  a  pause,  "I  think  we 
will  neither  of  us  relate  our  funny  encounter  with  Stea- 
vens  any  more.  What  did  we,  with  all  our  fancied 
supremacy,  gain  by  going  to  Europe,  compared  with  this 
man?  After  all,  it  was  a  real  inspiration  of  his  to 
'  strike  right  down  to  Bad  Peppers  '  1" 


THEEE  BKIDGES. 


I. 

THE   IMPORTANCE   OF   A    HAT. 

"WITHIN  a  distance  of  about  ten  miles  Shagford  River 
makes  three  long  curves,  each  of  which  is  crossed  by  a 
bridge. 

The  first  is  for  the  railroad.  The  second,  thrown 
across  at  a  point  where  the  ground  is  lower,  carries  a 
country  road  from  bank  to  bank.  Still  further  down  is 
the  third,  which  is  of  stone,  and  forms  a  paved  street  con- 
necting the  two  parts  of  the  factory  town  of  Shagford. 

On  the  afternoon  of  a  superb  summer  day  a  fast  train 
from  the  north-west  swept  around  the  curve  leading  to 
the  bridge-head,  and  emerged  upon  the  open  iron-work 
structure  which  bore  the  double  track  above  the  water. 
The  fireman  was  shovelling  coal,  and  the  engineer  had 
just  withdrawn  his  hand  from  a  cord  which  blew  the 
whistle  when  he  caught  sight  of  a  man,  in  a  round  Bom- 
bay hat,  half  way  across  and  walking  in  the  same  direc- 
tion the  train  was  taking.  Again  he  pulled  the  string, 
sending  out  four  hoarse  notes  :  "  Lo-ook  oout,  a-head  !" 
But  the  man  did  not  step  aside,  as  would  have  been  ex- 
pected, on  to  the  line  of  plank  provided  for  foot  passen- 
gers between  the  tracks.  The  engineer  turned  on  the 
air-brake  and  shouted  ;  but  there  was  a  strong  breeze 


TUE   IMPORTANCE   OF   A   HAT.  223 

blowing  against  him  ;  and  at  best  a  voice  could  hardly 
rouse  a  traveller  deaf  to  the  steam  notes.  The  last 
chance  of  escape  appeared  to  have  passed  when  the  stran- 
ger, moved  by  an  instinct  of  danger,  though  hearing 
nothing,  turned  his  head. 

For  the  space  of  a  second  he  confronted  the-  swift, 
trembling  glitter  of  steel  and  brass  and  the  pallid  face 
of  the  engineer  at  the  cab-window.  A  look  of  unutter- 
able horror  convulsed  his  own  features,  and  he  sprang 
wildly  into  the  air.  Falling  again,  without  being  hit  by 
the  engine,  he  went  tumbling  down  through  an  interstice 
of  the  iron  beams  into  the  muddy  water  below.  The 
train  was  soon  stopped  and  reversed.  Slowly  the  wheels 
revolved  backward — with  a  solemn,  funereal  movement, 
as  if  conscious  of  the  inanimate  body  that  might  soon  be 
added  to  their  freight. 

But  to  the  amazement  of  every  one  on  board,  staring 
frightened  into  the  river,  the  hurt  man  was  seen  to  be 
already  struggling  out  of  the  current,  and  clambering — 
wet,  hatless,  with  dripping  hair — up  the  steep  bank 
"they  had  just  left.  On  reaching  the  top  he  began  to 
walk  aimlessly  away  from  the  train,  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  but  presently  sat  down  on  the  ground  look- 
ing weak  and  bewildered. 

"  "Well,  if  he  ain't  the  coolest  hand  !"  exclaimed  the 
brakeman.  "  Must  be  a  new  sort  of  water-rat."  This 
same  brakeman,  however,  was  prompt  to  go  with  the 
conductor  to  the  aid  of  the  stranger.  They  found  him 
conscious,  but  stupefied,  and  so  helped  him  into  the 
train,  which  then  continued  on  its  way,  bearing  him  off 
to  Shagford. 

"  Where  are  you  bound  ?"  asked  the  conductor. 

The  man,  who  was  of  middle  age,  with  a  sun-browned 
face  and  close  iron-gray  whiskers  along  the  upper  jaws, 


224  THREE   BRIDGES. 

felt  for  Ms  hat  and,  not  finding  it,  looked  uneasy. 
"  There  must  be  no  delay,"  he  said,  half  to  himself. 
"  I'll  tell  you  in  a  moment,"  he  added. 

But  he  sat  for  some  time  without  speaking  ;  and  it 
was  evident  that  the  shock  of  his  terrible  fall  had  worked 
confusion  in  his  brain.  Even  on  reaching  Shagford  he 
was  unable  to  collect  himself.  But  they  persuaded  him 
to  consult  the  nearest  physician,  whom  he  sought  under 
care  of  the  young  brakeman.  This  resulted  in  his  being 
taken  temporarily  to  the  hospital,  for,  though  seemingly 
without  physical  injury,  he  had  suffered  so  peculiar  a 
mental  effect  that  rest  and  proper  care  were  thought 
advisable. 

Shortly  after  the  occurrence  of  this  singular  accident  a 
vehicle  crossed  the  turnpike  bridge,  of  wliich  mention 
has  been  made.  The  vehicle  was  a  buggy,  occupied  by 
a  single  figure — that  of  a  man  say  about  thirty-eight, 
clothed  in  a  close-fitting  suit  of  mixed  brown.  He  was 
of  prosperous  but  not  portly  aspect,  and  what  was  most 
noticeable  in  him  was  that  his  eyes  scanned  the  river  in 
a  sudden,  peculiar  way.  One  might  have  said  that, 
emerging  from  the  softly  massed  trees  upon  the  bank,  he 
had  an  uneasy  sense  of  being  exposed  to  unexpected  ob- 
servation on  the  open  stretch  of  the  bridge.  But  per- 
haps the  more  likely  explanation  would  be  that  he  was 
an  inquiring,  energetic  person,  who  habitually  looked 
everywhere.  Habit  or  chance,  whichever  it  might  be, 
his  alert  vision  was  not  exercised  in  vain  that  day.  He 
saw  on  the  river,  floating  toward  his  point  of  vantage,  an 
upturned  hat.  Now,  this  hat  was  the  identical  one  which 
had  quitted  the  head  of  the  unlucky  man  at  the  railroad 
bridge  ;  for,  being  made  of  cork,  it  was  perfectly  adapted 
to  navigation. 

"  That's  what  comes  of  sharp  eyes,"  said  the  driver 


THE   IMPORTANCE   OF   A    HAT.  225 

of  the  buggy  aloud,  much  as  though  he  were  stating  a 
moral  maxim  which  it  did  him  good  to  hear.  "Who 
knows  but  this  may  turn  out  important  ?  If  anybody's 
been  drowned,  or — "  The  alternative  was  lost  in  a 
clucking  sound  with  which  he  accompanied  the  urging  of 
his  horse  ;  for  he  had  formed  a  plan. 

The  bridge  was  low  ;  the  hat  was  drifting  toward  one 
of  the  numerous  rows  of  spiles,  hence  he  believed  he 
could  fish  it  up  with  his  long-handled  whip.  Dismount- 
ing, and  watching  his  opportunity,  he  succeeded  after  a 
few  moment's  novel  angling  in  bringing  up,  by  a  noose 
made  of  the  lash- end,  his  piece  of  flotsam. 

As  I  have  said,  this  man  wore  a  comfortable  mien  ; 
his  face  was  smooth,  rosy,  firm  and  beardless,  and 
though  the  structure  of  his  lips  was  rather  hard  and  de- 
termined, the  corners  of  the  lips  indicated  constant  readi- 
ness for  a  smile  which,  however,  never  culminated  when 
he  was  alone.  Still,  at  this  moment,  a  beam  of  satisfac- 
tion rested  on  his  features.  The  recovery  of  the  hat 
presented  itself  to  him  in  the  light  of  a  virtuous  action. 
Looking  into  it  he  saw  the  owner's  name  written  on  the 
leather  band  :  "  Simeon  Piper."  As  this  conveyed  no 
impression,  he  turned  his  attention  to  a  small  folded 
paper  stuffed  inside  of  the  band  and  making  a  slight 
bulge  in  it.  On  examining  what  was  inscribed  upon  the 
sheet,  his  countenance  changed  ;  the  beaming  look  van- 
'  ished,  and  his  eyebrows,  always  describing  an  acute  angle 
to  the  temples,  grew  sharper  than  ever.  It  was  a  move- 
ment analogous  to  that  of  an  animal  drawing  back  its  lips 
before  biting,  or  darting  a  fang  out.  His  expression,  in 
fact,  had  become  wolfish. 

What  did  it  mean  ?  Merely  that  the  name  he  had 
seen  this  time  was  his  own.  "Martin  E.  liourishell," 
he  read,  in  a  half  voice,  finding  it  for  an  instant  even 


226  THREE   BRIDGES. 

stranger  than  the  strange  name  he  had  encountered  just 
before.  But  he  had  seen  other  things  on  the  page  with 
his  name  ;  things  which  he  would  not  articulate  even 
here  ;  certain  names  and  dates  for  which  he  deemed 
silence  the  fittest  atmosphere. 

Hounshell's  next  act  was  to  toss  the  hat  hack  into  the 
river,  and  he  was  about  to  tear  up  the  paper  scrap  and 
send  it  after  the  hat,  when  he  changed  his  mind.  He 
put  the  memorandum  into  an  inside  pocket  and  buttoned 
up  his  coat,  tapped  the  surface  of  the  coat  snngly,  then 
got  into  his  buggy  and  drove  on — thoughtful  and  puz- 
zled, but  with  equanimity  returning  and  ready  to  spring 
his  patent  smile  in  a  moment,  should  he  meet  an  acquaint- 
ance. 

Nevertheless,  what  had  just  happened  was  startling. 
If  the  paper  which  now  lay  over  his  heart  had  possessed 
the  power  of  receiving  a  photograph  from  his  brain  he 
could  not  have  been  more  astonished.  The  invisible  had 
become  visible  ;  what  had  lain  concealed  for  years  in  his 
own  mind  now  confronted  him  from  without.  And  who 
was  Simeon  Piper — a  total  stranger — in  whose  hat  so 
mysterious  a  revelation  had  taken  place  ?  Hounshell's 
horse  dragged  that  question  along  unconsciously  to  the 
end  of  the  bridge,  where,  for  the  moment,  it  disappears 
from  our  pen  unanswered. 

The  small  waves  flashed  lightly  around  the  spiles  ;  a 
breeze  rustled  in  the  woods,  perhaps  looking  for  some- 
thing it  had  lost  there  and  never  could  find  again.  The 
two  bridges  were  deserted  ;  all  was  silent,  dreamy. 
Then  from  the  unseen  bridge  lower  down  a  shrill  clamor 
arose  to  break  the  serenity  of  the  evening  ;  a  chorused 
shriek  of  twenty  unearthly  voices  blended  together. 
Unexpected  and  wild,  loudly  startling  it  was,  so  that 
there  seemed  something  uncanny  about  it.  One  might 


FATHER,    DAUGHTER,    AND — WHO    ELSE?  227 

have  thought  it  the  cry  of  monsters  discovering  human 
prey,  or  a  mob  of  witches  revelling  in  some  crime  that 
had  been  found  out  there.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact  no 
one  indulged  in  either  of  these  impossible  fancies. 
Everybody  knew  that  the  uproar  came  from  the  mills  of 
Shagford,  blowing  the  hour  of  release  from  work. 


II. 

FATHER,  DAUGHTER,  AND WHO  ELSE  ? 

AT  this  signal  the  operatives  streamed  forth  like 
school-children  ;  and  from  Hounshell's  flannel-mill  in 
particular  came  one  elderly  man,  who  threw  himself  with 
all  the  energy  of  a  boy  into  a  row-boat  that  lay  at  the 
waterside,  and  began  oaring  his  way  lustily  up-stream. 
He  had  not  gone  far  before  he  turned  the  bow  into  a 
secluded  bay  where  water-lilies  grew  thickly.  Here, 
paddling  about  and  causing  the  boat  to  lurch  violently  as 
he  stooped  over  the  side,  he  pulled  a  few  of  the  flowers. 
He  looked  tired  and  hard- worked  ;  there  was  something 
indescribably  pathetic  in  his  making  so  much  effort  after 
the  day's  labor.  But  he  did  not  seem  to  see  this  ;  and 
so,  after  getting  a  bunch  of  lilies,  he  continued  up  the 
river  with  a  business-like  stroke  that  implied  some  past 
familiarity  with  life  on  the  water.  The  end  of  the  course 
was  soon  reached  ;  he  moored  the  boat  close  to  a  little 
cottage  that  stood  apart  from  the  houses  of  the  other 
working-people,  and  wore  a  peculiarly  well-cared-for 
aspect. 


228  THREE    BRIDGES. 

On  one  side  of  the  patli  was  a  tomato-patch  ;  on  the 
other  a  minute  flower-garden  ;  a  grape-vine  laid  its  flat 
leaves  by  one  of  the  windows,  and  everything  about  the 
place  was  neat,  cosey,  sheltered.  As  the  weaver  came 
up  toward  it,  however,  he  saw  that  there  were  two  per- 
sons in  the  room  behind  the  vine,  instead  of  only  one,  as 
he  had  expected.  He  paused,  looking  in,  and  saw  that  it 
was  Hounshell  with  his  daughter.  The  mill-owner  at 
that  moment  took  her  hand  in  a  somewhat  fervent  way, 
addressing  her  eagerly,  and  led  her  toward  the  window. 
Instantly  the  girl  withdrew  her  hand  and  came  running 
out. 

"  Oh,  father,  dear,  how  lovely  !  Did  you  bring  them 
for  me  ?" 

4 'Who  else  d'you  s'pose,  Addie  ?  I'm  not  courting 
any  one." 

He  looked  at  her  quizzically  as  she  received  the  lilies, 
his  weather-worn  face  glowing  mildly  at  the  same  time, 
with  pride  in  her  beauty  and  delight  at  having  pleased 
her. 

"  That's  mean  of  you,  father,"  she  said,  half  offended, 
yet  smiling  as  she  inhaled  the  delicate,  sweet-almond 
scent  of  the  blossoms. 

"  What  ?  Not  to  be  courting  ?"  he  asked,  putting  his 
arm  fondly  around  her.  "  I  can  do  better  than  that, 
lass,  by  coming  home.  Four  bells  have  struck  ;  time 
for  a  kiss,  you  know."  Whereupon  she  put  her  lips  to 
his  faded,  fatherly  cheek. 

Addie  was  certainly  beautiful  in  her  way,  and  Scofield 
thought  there  was  no  way  to  compare  with  it.  She  was 
tall,  fresh,  dark-eyed  ;  her  complexion  was  rich  with  the 
soft,  clear  brown  which  our  American  sun  so  deftly 
diffuses  over  a  healthy  face  that  ripens  in  its  warmth  ; 
and  she  always  looked  as  cool,  as  sparkling  and  lithe  as 


FATHER,    DAUGHTER,    AND— WHO    ELSE?  229 

if  she  had  just  stepped  from  a  bath  in  the  river.  Yon 
felt  that,  were  you  to  place  your  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
she  would  resist  springily,  like  a  young  bough  in  the 
woods. 

"And  you  can  do  a  good  deal  better  than  I  can; 
that's  certain,"  said  Hounshell  to  Scofield,  breaking  in. 
He  had  come  to  the  threshold  and  witnessed  this  little 
passage. 

"  You  ought  not  to  talk  about  it  before  me,  any- 
way," declared  Addie,  whose  code  of  propriety  never 
allowed  ceremony  to  stand  in  the  way  of  truthfulness. 
And,  having  administered  this  rebuke,  she  blushed  as  if 
it  were  she  who  had  offended  modesty. 

"  Oh,  well,  don't  take  on  about  it  !"  said  the  mill- 
owner,  apologetically.  "  I  don't  know  how  to  talk 
when  I  get  down  here.  Different  up  to  the  mill  ;  ain't 
it,  Scofield  ?"  Here  he  winked  at  the  father  with 
humorous  comradeship.  Then,  turning  again  to  Addie  : 
"  All  is,  I  want  you  to  be  my  wife,  and  you  know  it,  and 
BO  does  the  old  man.  So  where's  the  harm,  talking 
about?  Lord!  there  ain't  nothing  high  daddy  about 
me.  I  worked  my  way  up,  and  L  like  working-people  ; 
so,  'stid  of  going  round  among  the  high  daddies,  I  come  to 
you  and  say  I  want  to  marry  you.  I've  seen  you  grow 
into  a  woman,  just  like" — the  speaker,  embarrassed, 
gazed  helplessly  round  the  garden  for  a  comparison,  and 
proceeded  : — "  Like  one  of  those  tomaytoes  there,  when 
it  comes  to  fruit.  And  I  know  all  about  you." 

"I  don't  believe  I'm  like  a  tomayto  one  bit,"  said 
Addie,  with  conviction.  The  next  moment,  allowing 
herself  a  saucy  smile  :  "And  I  don't  know  all  about 
you,  you  ece.  So  there  !" 

Her  mature  admirer  did  not  resent  this,  but  stood 
really  abashed  and  disconcerted.  "  What  am  I  to  do, 


230  THREE    BRIDGES. 

Scofield  ?"  he  asked,  stepping  out  on  to  the  walk. 
"  You  see  how  it  goes. " 

Addie  seized  the  moment  for  escaping  into  the  house, 
while  her  father,  regarding  his  employer  meditatively, 
replied  :  "  Take  soundings,  and  then  try  again.  That's 
all  I  can  say." 

"  I  don't  know,"  observed  Hounshell,  shaking  his 
head.  He  tried  to  bring  his  regulation  smile  into  play, 
but  the  springs  would  not  work.  He  was  really  at- 
tached to  the  girl ;  and  there  was  a  painful  longing  in 
his  mind,  besides  another  motive,  of  which  he  could 
not  speak.  He  was  unnerved. 

Presently  they  went  into  the  house.  "  Won't  you 
stay  to  supper  ?"  suggested  Scofield. 

"  No,  thank'ee.     I'm  going.     Addie!" 

"  Yes,  sir."  She  looked  at  him  from  her  cool,  liquid 
eyes  as  steadily  and  with  as  much  unconsciousnes  in  her 
clear-lined  face  as  if  she  had  never  heard  him  speak  of 
marriage. 

"  I've  a  word  to  say,  if  you'll  come  out  to  the  gate."* 

"  All  right. "  Addie  put  the  cups  on  the  table  for  her 
father  and  herself,  and  then  followed  Hounshell,  who 
bade  the  weaver  good-night. 

"  I  want  you  to  treat  me  differently,"  said  the  miller, 
when  they  were  alone.  "  This  is  a  very  serious  matter, 
and  there's  more  in  it  than  you  think.  You  ought  to 
consider  your  father." 

The  girl's  eyes  flashed.  "  You  don't  mean,"  she  be- 
gan, "  that  you—" 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  any  harm  to  him,  of  course. 
Take  me  or  leave  me,  he'll  be  all  right.  But  if  yon 
take  me,  my  father-in-law  don't  remain  in  the  weaving- 
room,  by  a  long  shot.  I'll  make  him  my  partner  in- 
Btid." 


FATHEK,    DAUGHTEE,    AITD— WHO   ELSE?  231 

Addie  appeared  to  weigh  this. 

"  Well,  that's  right,' '  she  said.  "  He  ought  to  be." 
Hesitatingly,  she  went  on  :  "I  know  it's  generous  of 
you,  but — but — " 

"  There's  another  reason,  too,"  the  suitor  hastened  to 
explain.  "  I  can't  tell  you  now,  but  I  might  afterward. 
It's  very  serious.  Oh,  I  can't  stand  it,  if  you  don't  con- 
sent !"  he  almost  groaned. 

She  was  startled  by  his  strenuous  manner. 

"  What  reason  can  it  be  ?"  she  asked,  quivering  a 
little. 

"It's  been  on  my  heart  so  long,"  Hounshell  said, 
pressing  both  hands  on  his  chest.  "  It's  there  now,"  he 
continued,  sinking  his  voice.  At  the  precise  instant  of 
speaking  his  fingers  felt  beneath  the  coat  that  fateful  fold 
of  paper  which  the  river  had  brought  him,  and  both 
arms  fell  as  if  he  had  been  struck. 

"  Good  God  !"  he  exclaimed,  staring  at  her. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  she,  too,  must  have  felt  the  paper 
and  its  tell-tale  words. 

"What  have  I  been  saying?"  he  asked,  in  a  bewil- 
dered tone. 

The  change  in  him  within  a  few  moments  had  been 
extraordinary,  and  Addie  experienced  a  shock.  Any 
one  who  had  seen  the  wolfish  glare  of  his  eyes  on  the 
bridge  would  have  been  surprised  at  the  human  emotion 
he  now  betrayed. 

"  You  frighten  me,"  said  the  girl,  shrinking  ;  but 
she  was  conscious  of  feeling  more  pity  than  fright. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  urged  Hounshell,  trying  to 
speak  gently  ;  but  his  voice  broke.  It  sounded  abject 
rather  than  soothing.  "  I  s'pose  I'm  making  mistakes 
again.  You  can't  understand  me.  Only  this — think  of 
this  :  I  shall  never  get  over  it  if  you  don't  have  me. 


232  THREE    BRIDGES. 

You  may  do  me  a  great  wrong  by  turning  me  off. 
Can't  you  consider  about  this  a  little  more  ?" 

"  I — I  will  try  to  consider,  Mr.  Hounshell,"  faltered 
Addie. 

"  Then  I'll  go  ;  I'll  bid  you  good-night,"  he  said,  re- 
gaining some  of  his  customary  stiffness. 

"  Good-night,"  she  returned. 

He  got  into  the  waiting  buggy  ;  there  was  a  grinding 
of  wheels,  a  puff  of  whitish  dust  from  them,  and  then 
the  dusk  obliterated  him,  much  to  her  relief.  She  went 
back  into  the  house  slightly  paler  than  when  she  had 
left  it. 

"  Father,"  she  declared,  "  I  never  can  marry  that 
man."" 

"What!     Hounshell?" 

"  Yes.  There's  something  strange  about  him — and 
wrong." 

"  Careful  !  He's  been  our  best  friend,  lass  ;  there 
can't  be  anything  wrong." 

"  All  the  same,  I  shall  not  marry  him." 

The  old  man  was  hurt. 

"  Have  you  thought  over  all  ?"  he  asked.  "  You 
wouldn't  be  the  only  gainer." 

He  glanced  down  at  his  arm,  which  still  bore  marks  of 
sailor's  tattooing,  and  at  his  hard  hands  all  day  in  service 
at  the  loom  ;  and  then  he  sighed,  as  if  despairing  of 
rest. 

"I  know,  dear  father,"  said  his  daughter.  "Mr. 
Hounshell  would  be  very  generous  to  you,  so  I  wish  I 
could  do  it.  But  oh,  I  can't,  I  can't  !" 

She  put  one  hand  on  his  arm  and  looked  piteously  into 
his  face. 

"  I  see  how  it  is,"  said  Scofield.  "  You  have  fixed 
your  fancy  on  Jonah. "  . 


FATHER,    DAUGHTER,    AXD — WHO    ELSE?  233 

Addie  softly  moved  away.  All  her  color  had  re- 
turned, but  she  said  nothing.  They  had  barely  seated 
themselves  at  the  table  when  a  knock  was  heard. 

"  Come  in  !"  cried  Addie,  and  on  the  entrance  of  the 
new-comer,  "  Oh — Jonah  !" 

"  Did  you  think  it  was — well,  never  mind  who." 

Jonah,  in  whose  spruce  attire,  as  he  now  presented 
himself,  it  was  not  easy  to  recognize  the  brakeman  of  the 
afternoon  train,  made  this  enigmatical  remark  rather 
uneasily,  and  subsided  into  regretful  silence. 

"  Sit  down,  Jonah,  and  have  some  supper,"  said  old 
Scofield,  with  a  slight  lingering  gruffness. 

The  young  man,  however,  accepted  without  compunc- 
tion ;  and  in  a  twinkling  Addie  had  spirited  on  to  the 
table  an  extra  cup,  plate,  knife  and  fork,  which  were 
suspiciously  ready  to  her  hand. 

"  We  had  a  queer  thing  happen  on  the  train  this  after- 
noon," said  Jonah,  as  the  hot  tea  roused  him  into  talk- 
ativeness again.  And  he  proceeded  to  relate  the  occur- 
rence with  which  our  narrative  of  these  events  began. 
"  Man's  name  is  Piper,"  he  continued — "  Simeon  Piper. 
No  one  knows  anything  about  him,  and  he  can't  tell 
why  he  was  there  or  where  he  was  going.  The  shock 
put  a  screw  loose  in  his  brain  somewhere,  the  doctor 
says.  May  get  over  it,  and  may  not.  But  they  won't 
keep  him  at  the  hospital  long,  because  there's  nothing 
the  matter  with  him  much,  except  that." 

u  Poor  fellow  !"  Addie  murmured.  "  What  will  he 
do  when  they  send  him  away,  if  he  doesn't  know  where 
he  wants  to  go  ?" 

"  Can't  make  it  out,"  was  Jonah's  answer.  "Some 
one  ought  to  take  hold  and  help  him  till  he  gets 
well." 

Addie  made  a  prompt  resolution. 


234  THREE   BRIDGES. 

"  We'll  take  hold  ;  won't  we,  father  ?  Couldn't  you 
bring  him  out  here,  Jonah  ?" 

The  brakeman  reflected  a  moment.  Piper  was  not 
young  ;  so  there  was  no  objection  on  that  score. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I'll  bring  him  out  when  I  get  back 
from  my  run  to-morrow.  They  say  he  seems  pretty 
well-to-do,  too.  He'll  pay  board." 

"  Never  mind  if  he  does,"  said  Miss  Scofield,  artlessly. 
"  We  can  be  kind  to  him  just  the  same/' 

It  was  settled  accordingly. 

After  supper  the  two  men  went  out  into  the  garden. 
They  had  a  serious  subject  to  talk  over,  and  Jonah  be- 
gan it  by  saying  : 

"  The  men  are  pretty  near  all  agreed,  Mr.  Scofield, 
and  we've  got  to  do  something  soon.  How  is  it  in  your 
mill  ?" 

"  Hounshell's,  you  mean,"  corrected  the  ex-sailor  and 
weaver,  cutting  a  piece  of  tobacco.  "  Well,  I  suppose 
a  good  many  of  our  hands  will  go  with  you,  if  it  comes 
to  a  strike.  But  I  can  control  a  number,  I  guess  ;  and 
I'm  bound  to  tell  you  that  we  shall  stick  to  work  and 
stand  out  ag'in  you." 

1 '  That's  bad — bad,"  mumbled  the  young  railroader, 
with  a  troubled  air.  He  plucked  a  spear  of  tall  grass  and 
began  biting  it.  "I  can't  see,  Scofield,"  he  burst  out 
(dropping  the  "Mr."  this  time),  "why  you  stick  to 
f  that  man  against  all  your  own  interests  and  the  interests 
of  your  fellow-workmen.  What's  Hounshell  compared 
with  them  ?' ' 

"  He's  my  friend  and  benefactor  ;  that's  all.  Didn't 
he  take  care  o'  my  poor  wife  the  day  she  died  ?  And 
when  I  come  back  from  sea,  after  a  long  cruise  and  a 
shipwreck,  and  my  wife  was  dead,  didn't  I  find  that  he 
had  taken  my  little  girl  in  tow,  and  was  eddicating  her  ? 


FATHER,    DAUGHTER,    AND — WHO    ELSE?  235 

Look  here,"  Scofield  pushed  up  the  sleeve  of  his  coat 
and  shirt  and  displayed  the  dim  blue  anchor  on  his  fore- 
arm ;  "as  long  as  that  stays  there  I'm  going  to  be  true 
to  the  man  as  was  true  to  me,"  he  said. 

"I  know  all  that,"  said  Jonah.  "He's  done  a  lot. 
The  others  are  a  little  jealous  of  you,  sometimes  ;  and 
that's  one  reason  I  want  you  to  be  with  us.  If  you  ain't, 
they'll  say  :  '  Oh,  yes,  it's  very  fine  for  Scofield  to  stay 
out  !  The  boss  helped  him  to  a  nice  cottage,  and  give 
his  daughter  a  pianna.  But  the  rest  of  us  have  got  to 
look  out  for  ourselves.'  That's  what  they'll  say.  And 
as  for  me,  I  say  it's  barter  and  trade  ;  that's  what  ! 
Hounshell  give  Addie  an  education  and  a  pianna,  and 
now  he  wants  her  to  give  herself  in  exchange. " 

"  That  ain't  the  way  to  look  at  it,"  retorted  Scofield. 
"  It  ain't  fair.  And  if  you  mean  to  insult  my  daughter 
by  your  talk  about  barter  and  trade,  why,  you'd  bet- 
ter—" 

"  You're  the  first  to  say  '  insult,'  "  Jonah  answered, 
in  an  angry,  constrained  tone.  "  I  love  Addie  ;  and  I 
don't  believe  she'd  marry  in  any  such  way.  And  what's 
more,  I — I  kind  of  hope  she'll  marry  me.  There  again, 
there's  another  reason  why  I  wanted  you  to  be  on  our 
side — now  that  we've  got  everything  together,  and  the 
railroad  hands  and  mill  hands  are  ready  to  move  at  the 
same  time.  But  I  see  it's  no  use  ;  I've  done  my  best." 

"  No  ;  it's  no  use,"  assented  the  weaver.  "  I'm  do- 
ing my  best,  too." 

Thus  it  happened  that  the  young  man  took  his  depart- 
ure in  some  heat ;  but  it  was  of  her  own  accord  that 
Addie  followed  this  lover  to  the  gate  ;  and  she  did  not 
let  him  go  without  a  few  sweet  words  to  comfort  him. 


236  THREE    BRIDGES. 

III. 

LISTENING. 

MARTIN  HOUNSHELL  had  three  good  causes  for  wish- 
ing to  inarry  Addie  Scofield.  First,  so  far  as  in  him 
lay,  he  loved  her.  Secondly,  knowing  that  opposition 
was  afoot  among  the  men,  he  feared  the  influence  that 
Jonah  Brown  might  obtain  over  Scofield,  should  he  suc- 
ceed in  his  courtship  of  the  daughter  ;  for  he  relied 
much  on  the  sailor-weaver's  loyalty  to  fight  off  the 
trouble.  Thirdly,  he  had  some  time  since  been  guilty 
of  a  secret  misdeed,  which  he  hoped  to  repair  by  bestow- 
ing further  benefits  on  the  Scofields. 

This  evening,  after  going  from  the  cottage  and  leaving 
his  horse  at  home,  he  went  down  to  the  deserted  mill, 
entered  the  office,  locked  himself  in,  and  then  spread 
out  on  his  desk  the  discovered  memorandum.  The 
words  with  which  it  began  were  these  :  "  Martin  E. 
Hounshell.  Property  delivered,  April  13th,  1877. 
Adelaide  Scofield  died  same  day.  Husband  returned — ." 

The  date  here  was  omitted.  Below  followed  the 
names  of  certain  persons  in  California,  and  two  or  three 
other  brief  notes. 

To  the  mill-owner,  sitting  there  in  the  dim  candle- 
light, with  a  hand  pressed  nervously  over  his  lips,  this 
told  the  whole  story.  To  any  one  it  would  at  least  sug- 
gest suspicion.  Should  he  destroy  the  paper  ?  He  held 
it  up  toward  the  candle  ;  then  hesitated.  It  might  be 
desirable  first  to  find  out  who  had  written  it,  and  to  do 
this  he  would  keep  it  as  evidence.  No  place  so  unap- 
proachable by  others  as  his  own  pocket ;  so  he  put  it 
away  again. 


LISTENIXG.  237 

The  injury  lie  Lad  done  to  the  unsuspecting  Scofield 
had  been  crowned  with  success  to  himself,  but  it  had 
tormented  him,  too.  In  spite  of  having  given  the  man 
employment  and  having  assisted  the  daughter,  he  could 
not  escape  his  remorse.  But  when  he  should  have 
wedded  Addie,  and  lifted  the  weaver  into  a  subordinate 
partnership,  he  felt  sure  that  his  mind  would  be  at  rest. 
"  As  it  is,"  he  muttered,  "  I  have  done  more  than  most 
would  have  done,  to  make  amends.  I  can't  give  up  all — 
the  whole  thing.  It  ain't  reasonable.  And  if  I  get  to 
be  his  son-in-law,  why,  we're  all  together,  and  that 
squares  it." 

But  who  and  where  was  this  other  man,  this  unknown 
Piper,  who  carried  dangerous  information  which  might 
at  any  moment,  if  disclosed,  give  a  sudden  check  to  the 
comforting  plan  thus  formed?  That  must  be  learned 
without  delay. 

It  was  not  until  the  next  afternoon  that,  looking  over 
the  Shagford  Minute-Hand  more  carefully  than  he  had 
had  time  to  do  in  the  morning,  he  saw  an  account  of  the 
accident  at  the  railroad  bridge,  which  accounted  for  the 
floating  hat.  Simeon  Piper,  then,  was  in  the  very  town, 
at  the  hospital — perhaps  at  this  instant  telling  some  one 
the  tale  which  had  come  to  his  knowledge  !  Preposter- 
ous unkindness  of  fate,  to  deal  such  a  blow  at  this  late 
day  !  Ilounshell  only  half  believed  it  could  be  dealt 
him  ;  yet  when  he  rose  from  his  chair  he  felt  very  weak, 
and  the  solid  walls  of  the  mill  as  he  passed  outside 
seemed  decidedly  rickety.  He  very  nearly  expected 
them  to  fall  over  upon  him.  As  directly  as  he  could  he 
made  his  way  to  the  hospital,  and  by  the  time  he  reached 
it  was  aware  that  his  interest  in  the  stranger  might  ap- 
pear somewhat  singular.  To  prevent  this  he  began  care- 
lessly, to  the  attendant  : 


238  THREE    BRIDGES. 

"  Queer  sort  of  case,  that  one  you  had  yesterday  from 
the  railroad." 

"  Yes,  a  very  narrow  escape." 

"I  read  about  it  in  the  Minute-Hand.  How's  he 
getting  along  ?" 

"  Yery  well  indeed.     He's  left  us. " 

"  Left  a' ready  !"  Hounshell  wondered  if  his  face 
looked  as  white  as  it  felt.  "  There's  no  chance,  then — 

"No  chance  to  see  him  now,"  said  the  attendant,  far 
from  suspecting  the  anxiety  under  that  word  "  chance," 
as  used  by  Hounshell. 

"  He's  lucky  to  get  off  so  soon,"  remarked  the  latter, 
a  cold  perspiration  on  his  back.  "  Gone  from  town,  I 
s'pose. " 

"I  believe  so." 

Hounshell  was  afraid  to  ask  anything  more.  He  cov- 
ered his  retreat  by  discussing  his  ostensible  errand,  which 
was  to  make  arrangements  for  possibly  sending  to  the 
hospital  the  invalid  wife  of  one  of  his  men.  He  had  no 
intention  of  actually  sending  her,  but  he  went  away  leav- 
ing an  impression  of  his  remarkable  kindness. 

How  dear  to  him  was  all  this  false  reputation,  which 
cost  so  little  except  in  secret  mental  twinges  !  He 
doubted  whether  a  respectability  honestly  worked  for 
would  have  yielded  him  nearly  so  keen  an  enjoyment ; 
and  he  was  determined  to  hold  on  to  that  which  he  had 
gained.  Where  to  look  for  Piper,  and  just  how  to  dis- 
pose of  him,  was  the  problem  now  before  him.  But  he 
began  to  feel  easier,  and  his  thoughts  returned  to  the  im- 
pending labor  revolt. 

It  was  desirable  to  see  Scofield  in  private,  and  with 
this  end  in  view  he  drove  out  to  the  cottage  again  at 
evening. 

On  entering  the  little  sitting-room  he  was  annoyed  to 


LISTENING.  239 

find  a  stranger  there  comfortably  adjusted  in  a  rocking- 
chair. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  had  company  here,"  he  observed 
frigidly,  eying  Scofield. 

"Oh,  that  won't  interfere!"  said  Scofield.  "It's 
only  Mr.  Piper  ;  the  man  that — " 

"  Piper  !"  ejaculated  Hounshell,  in  a  voice  harsh  with 
horror. 

The  stranger  looked  up  at  him  astonished. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  weaver.  "  Mr.  Piper,  this  is  our 
boss,  Mr.  Hounshell." 

It  was  all  over — so  the  miller  thought.  He  stood  star- 
ing, waiting  for  Simeon  Piper  to  spring  up  with  deadly 
denunciation  on  his  lips.  But  that  individual  merely 
bowed  and  inspected  his  vis-d-vis  with  a  good-natured 
air.  The  only  thing  worthy  of  remark  about  him  was 
that  there  was  a  sort  of  pained  blankness  in  his  face  ; 
and  as  he  met  Hounshell's  fixed  gaze  he  lifted  one  hand 
and  pressed  his  forehead  vaguely  for  an  instant.  The 
other  man  was  quick  to  take  the  respite  offered. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well,  Mr.  Piper,"  he 
said,  exhibiting  his  smile  with  great  success.  "  I've 
heard  about  your  escape." 

Then  he  looked  at  Scofield  imperiously,  and  they  went 
out  together. 

"  What  is  that  man  there  for  ?"  he  demanded,  taking 
the  weaver's  arm  sharply. 

"  Why,  he's  come  out  to  board  ;  that's  all.  Do  you 
know  him  ?  You  seemed  a  good  deal  shaken  up." 

"  No  ;  I  don't  know  him.  I  s'pose  this  labor  combi- 
nation is  making  me  nervous.  I  kind  of  suspect  peo- 
ple." 

"  Pshaw  !  This  man's  an  outsider  ;  comes  from  Cal- 
ifornia. He  was  a  rancheero,  or  something,  out  there, 


240  THREE   BRIDGES. 

I  believe.  I  can  tell  you  how  we  happen  to  have  him 
here."  And  the  explanation  was  given.  "  He's 
dropped  the  bottom  out  of  his  memory,  like,  and  wants 
to  wait  till  he  can  fit  a  new  one  to  it." 

"  Oh,  that's  it  !"  exclaimed  Hounshell,  once  more 
secure.  He  saw  that  his  name  had  not  been  recognized 
by  his  enemy  ;  and  perhaps  the  memorandum  in  his 
pocket  was  the  only  connecting  link  that  would  ever  lead 
to  such  a  recognition.  "Still,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  like 
Jonah's  bringing  him  here.  It  won't  hurt  if  you  let  him 
go  his  way  this  side  of  next  week." 

They  then  proceeded  to  a  discussion  of  the  state  of 
things  in  the  mill  ;  and  Hounshell  went  home  without 
attempting  an  interview  with  Ad  die.  But  first,  after 
driving  a  little  way,  he  stopped,  went  back  on  foot,  and 
stealthily  looked  through  the  vine-hung  window.  Addie 
was  reading  something  to  the.robust-looking  invalid,  who 
still  sat  in  the  rocking-chair,  his  face  as  blank  as  ever. 
Her  father  occupied  himself  with  carving  a  small  piece 
of  wood,  twisting  his  lips  in  sympathy  with  the  knife. 
Everything  was  placidly  reassuring. 

Hounshell  wondered  at  the  thinness  of  the  partition 
that  stood  between  him  and  ruin  ;  but  he  did  not  care  if 
it  was  only  an  egg-shell,  so  long  as  it  did  not  break. 

But  while  he  was  still  gazing  through  the  pane,  the 
sound  of  a  distant  train  on  the  railroad  came  through  the 
night.  The  watcher  was  scarcely  aware  of  it  until  he 
saw  Piper  start  up  in  his  chair,  listening,  with  a  roused, 
intent  expression.  The  girl  ceased  from  her  reading  ; 
Scofield  stopped  his  work  and  looked  at  their  guest.  No 
one  spoke  in  the  little  room.  The  noise  of  the  train 
grew  louder  ;  now  it  became  a  rumbling  hum  or  a  rattle 
— busy,  swift,  determined  in  character.  It  was  as  if  a 
gigantic  shuttle  were  being  driven  through  the  woof  of 


LISTENING.  341 

the  darkness,  to  carry  one  more  strand  into  that  great 
web  of  civilization,  woven  day  and  night  continually. 
But  there  was  something  mysterious  and  warning  in  the 
sound  besides.  Under  the  general  subdued  roar  could 
be  heard  the  sharp  click  of  the  wheels  from  rail  to  rail, 
in  definite  pulsations  ;  the  sound  thus  grew  so  precise 
one  might  have  suspected  that  it  would  break  into 
speech.  Had  it  not  some  message  to  deliver  of  which 
this  was  the  vague  prelude  ? 

That  at  least  was  what  Piper  seemed  to  hope  as  he  rose 
excited,  finally  gaining  his  feet,  with  a  quicker  intelli- 
gence in  his  face  than  had  been  there  before.  As  if  it 
would  be  possible  to  catch  the  message  more  distinctly 
should  he  look  out,  he  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  win- 
dow. Hounshell  barely  missed  betraying  himself  there, 
but  slid  away  into  the  dark  swiftly. 

"  Was  that  a  face  ?"  Simeon  Piper  demanded.  "  No  ; 
I  see  it  must  have  been  an  illusion,"  he  added,  de- 
spondently, once  more  putting  his  hand  to  his  head. 

The  father  and  daughter  exchanged  looks  of  pity. 

By  this  time  the  cars  had  got  farther  off  and  were  less 
audible.  Piper's  agitation  died  away  proportionately, 
and  he  sank  back  into  his  seat. 

But  the  same  sort  of  thing  happened  on  the  follow- 
ing day  when  he  heard  the  distant  movement  of  a 
train. 

"  Listen  !"  he  cried  to  Addie,  who  was  with  him. 
"  Don't  you  hear  ?  It's  going  to  say  something.  I  shall 
get  hold  of  the  idea  and  find  out  what  is  the  matter. 
Listen  !  listen  !" 

Then,  as  before,  the  hollow  rumble  diminished,  grad- 
ually softened  to  a  stir  no  louder  than  a  sigh,  and  finally 
was  quite  lost.  Only  the  bamed  breeze  continued  its 
hopeless  search  among  the  leafy  boughs  by  the  river. 


242  THREE   BRIDGES. 

"  What  is  it  you  think  you  might  hear  ?' '  asked  Addie, 
gently. 

The  strong  man  looked  at  her  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  A  secret,  young  lady  ;  a  secret  !  I  knew  it,  and 
now  it  is  gone.  It's  strange  that  cars  should  excite  me 
this  way,  but  something  has  hurt  my  brain.  You  are 
very  kind  ;  and  if  you  go  on  being  so  perhaps  my  mind 
will  get  right  again." 

A  week  passed.  Piper  listened  each  day  to  the  pass- 
ing trains  ;  sometimes  at  night  too,  when  he  lay  alone, 
and  it  seemed  still  more  likely  that  through  its  relation 
with  this  sound  the  lost  clew  might  disclose  itself.  But 
all  in  vain ';  he  was  unable  to  recover  what  had  escaped 
him. 

During  these  days  Hounshell  did  not  come  out  to  the 
cottage,  but  the  labor  movement  culminated,  and  all  the 
railroad  and  mill  employes  demanded  an  advance  of 


IY. 

THE   THIRD    BEIDGE. 

THE  employers  met  in  conference,  and  agreed  not  to 
yield — so  the  strike  began.  Scofield,  however,  and  a 
small  group  with  him,  stoutly  refused  to  join  the  move- 
ment ;  and  some  work  was  still  done  at  Hounshell's. 
This  encouraged  the  other  mill -owners  and  directors,  and 
exasperated  the  men  in  revolt.  At  first  everything  was 
quiet  and  orderly  ;  but  as  the  success  of  the  laborers  grew 
more  doubtful  to  them,  anger  and  excitement  gained 
67/ay. 


THE  THIRD   BRIDGE.  243 

"1  feel  almost  afraid  for  father,"  said  Addie  to 
Simeon  Piper,  on  the  fourth  day  of  the  strike.  For,  in 
fact,  there  were  now  serious  threats  of  riot. 

"  I  don't  believe  they  would  do  him  any  harm,"  said 
the  Calif ornian,  easily.  "  The  most  they'll  do  will  be 
to  make  him  stop  working,  and  then  he'll  have  a  holi- 
day." 

"But  he  won't  stop,"  the  girl  affirmed,  excitedly. 
"  I  know  father  better  than  you." 

"  Well,  then,"  suggested  Piper,  still  seeking  an  easy 
way  out,  "  persuade  your  friend  Brown — my  friend,  too 
— to  come  over  to  father's  side. " 

Piper,  with  a  Western  taste  for  convenience  and  cor- 
diality, had  adopted  this  mode  of  referring  to  Scofield. 

"  But  I— I  don't  want  to,"  faltered  Addie,  with  a 
soft  blush. 

"Hoity-toity!"  cried  Simeon.  "What  does  that 
mean  ?" 

"  I  want  him — the  strikers,  that  is — to  win." 

"Against  father?"  Piper  raised  his  good-humored 
eyebrows. 

"  Oh  dear,  I  wish  they  were  on  the  same  side  !  I 
only  know  I'm  fearful.  They'll  hurt  him  ;  I  know 
they  will." 

"  Oh,  look  here,"  said  Piper,  "  that's  all  foolishness  ! 
But  I'll  tell  you  what  :  we'll  walk  down  to  town  and 
see  how  things  are  going." 

"  Shall  we  ?  Oh,  how  nice  you  are,  Mr.  Piper  ! 
Come  on,  then." 

And  they  started. 

A  great  many  men  were  standing  about  the  streets, 
looking  ominous  of  ill  ;  but  as  yet  no  disturbance  was 
made.  The  mill  stood  at  one  end  of  the  street-bridge  ; 
and  as  Piper  and  Addie  came  up  to  it  they  heard  the 


244  THREE    BRIDGES. 

noise  of  a  crowd  approaching  around  one  corner  of  it. 
A  moment  after  they  had  gained  the  entrance,  this 
crowd,  which  numbered  some  twenty-five  men,  armed 
with  thick  sticks  and  some  heavy  stones,  arrayed  itself 
face  to  face  with  them. 

"  Where  do  you  lot  on  going  ?"  asked  Piper,  in  a  lei- 
surely manner. 

"  In  here,"  said  some  of  the  group,  "  to  stop  them 
working." 

"I  guess  not,"  observed  the  Calif ornian.  His  tone 
was  even  genial. 

"  "We'll  see,"  retorted  a  leader,  moving  forward. 

The  mill-door  was  fast,  but  at  this  moment  the  bolts 
were  loosed,  and  Scofield  made  his  appearance. 

"Addie,"  he  commanded,  sternly,  "come  in,  and 
out  of  the  muss  !  and  you,  too,  Piper." 

"  You  can  send  daughter  in,"  answered  Piper,  indi- 
cating Addie,  who — far  from  quailing — looked  as  serene 
and  fresh  as  ever.  "  But  I'm  going  to  stand  in  front  of 
this  door.  Now,"  he  continued,  with  determination, 
fronting  the  rioters,  "you  leave  the  old  man  and  his 
girl  alone.  If  you  don't  you've  got  to  fight  me.  One 
of  your  locomotives  run  me  off  the  bridge  t'other  day 
and  didn't  kill  me  ;  and  I  guess  you  can't,  either.  I 
promise  to  corral  the  whole  herd,  if  you  try  to  come  in 
here." 

Some  of  the  men  showed  defiance,  but  those  nearest 
were  in  no  hurry  to  attack.  It  had  suddenly  become 
apparent  to  them  that  their  antagonist's  shoulders  were 
particularly  square  and  rugged.  Scofield  wondered 
whether  his  champion  knew  what  he  was  about  ;  the 
Piper  certainly  seemed  to  be  in  possession  of  all  his 
faculties. 

The  leaders  began  to  confer. 


THE   THIRD   BRIDGE.  245 

As  luck  would  have  it,  the  owner  of  the  mill,  who  had 
been  absent,  and  was  not  aware  of  the  immediate  dan- 
ger, just  then  came  up.  He  had  not  seen  the  crowd 
until  within  a  few  yards.  At  once  a  threatening  ciy 
arose  : 

"  Hounshell !" 

A  strange  sensation  came  over  Piper  ;  a  loud,  tumult- 
uous noise  following  the  word,  filled  his  ears.  "Was  it 
the  rush  of  the  river,  or  the  thunder  of  a  railroad  train  ? 
He  could  not  tell ;  but  he  shouted  suddenly  with  fierce 
exultation  : 

"Hounshell  —  that's  the  name!  Hounshell's  the 
man  !" 

His  memory  had  come  back  to  him. 

The  strikers,  diverted  by  this  new  object,  turned  as  if 
to  assault  the  "  boss  ;"  but  Piper  was  before  them.  He 
had  darted  forward  and  toward  Hounshell,  who,  blanched 
with  fear,  and  thinking  Piper  in  league  with  the  men, 
took  flight,  making  for  the  bridge  ;  the  Californian  after 
him.  The  little  mob,  itself  bewildered,  followed  ;  but 
Piper  had  already  clutched  the  fugitive  when  it  caught 
up  with  them. 

"I've  got  him,"  he  cried.  "This  man's  a  fraud. 
Do  you  want  to  know  why  ?  He  took  the  money  left  to 
the  other  man — Scofield — hurrah  !  that's  the  other 
name.  He  stole  the  money,  I  tell  you,  and  bought  that 
mill,  and  it  don't  belong  to  him.  The  mill  is  Scofield's  ; 
d'you  hear  ?" 

"  Let  go,"  gurgled  Hounshell,  trying  to  wrench  him- 
self free.  But  his  captor  shook  him  once,  and  he  was 
quiet. 

The  workmen  crowded  up  to  get  a  clearer  understand- 
ing of  this  extraordinary  statement  ;  and  as  it  broke 
fully  upon  them,  "  Throw  him  over  the  bridge,"  became 


246  THREE    BRIDGES. 

their  watchword.  But  by  this  time  several  other  persons 
had  advanced  over  the  street  bridge,  among  whom  were 
Jonah  and  Scofield. 

"  No  violence,  boys,"  said  Jonah,  lifting  his  voice, 
which  had  authority.  "  You're  disgracing  the  cause." 

The  men  became  silent,  but  Scofield  was  indignant 
with  his  ally  of  a  moment  before. 

"  What  are  you  doing  to  the  boss  ?"  he  demanded, 
hotly.  "  You  must  be  crazy." 

"  Yes  ;  he's  crazy,"  said  Hounshell,  trying  to  assume 
the  air  of  a  composed  and  meritorious  person  placed  at  a 
disadvantage. 

"You  must  have  been  yourself,"  the  Calif ornian 
vehemently  declared,  "  when  you  took  that  legacy  to 
pay  to  Mrs.  Scofield,  and  then  stole  it  because  she  died 
and  no  one  knew  about  it.  The  mill  belongs  to  Scofield, 
I  say,  and  I  can  prove  it  in  a  little  time." 

"  You've  got  no  evidence,"  asserted  Hounshell,  very 
pale  and  a  trifle  wolfish. 

"  Evidence  !  I've  got  you,  and  you're  chock  full  of 
it.  I  believe  I  could  shake  it  right  out  of  you  if  I 
tried." 

Piper  glared  at  him,  and  then,  without  releasing  his 
hold,  made  a  dive  with  one  hand  at  his  captive's  breast. 

"  It's  gone,' '  said  Hounshell,  huskily.  "I've  burned 
it." 

"  Burned  what  ?" 

"  The  paper,"  Hounshell  muttered  ;  "  your  memo — " 

"  Oh,  you  had  it,  then  !  You've  convicted  yourself 
by  that,  my  fine  scamp." 

"I  give  up,"  said  the  wretched  criminal.  "Let's 
go.  Take  me  away — the  mill !  Bring  Scofield.  I  give 
up."  _ 

Seeing  that  this  was  best,  Simeon  acceded. 


THE   THIRD    BRIDGE.  247 

"  Come  along,  Scofield,"  he  said. 

Jonah  pressed  up  to  Scofield  and  congratulated  him  as 
they  went,  but  the  older  man  scarcely  responded.  When 
they  were  again  at  the  mill  one  striker  renewed  the  idea 
of  coercing  the  workers.  But  Jonah  imposed  his  veto. 

"Not  now,"  he  said. 

And  Scofield  added  : 

"  Boys,  if  the  mill  belongs  to  me  it's  settled  bef ore- 
ham  d.  You  get  your  advance." 

This  sent  them  off  with  a  cheer  and  the  prophecy  that 
the  rest  of  the  bosses  would  have  to  follow  suit. 

The  four  men,  left  alone,  entered  the  office. 

"  Is  it  true  ?"  asked  Scofield. 

Hounshell  winced,  but  replied  steadily  : 

"It's  all  true." 

The  weaver  went  to  the  window  and  put  his  head  on 
his  arm.  It  was  he,  the  innocent  man,  who  was  over- 
whelmed by  the  disgrace  of  the  one  who  had  wronged 
him. 

"But  how  did  you  find  it  out?"  Jonah  asked  of 
Piper. 

"  Roundabout,"  was  the  answer.  "  First  off,  from  a 
man  I  was  hiring  on  my  ranche.  He  came  from  here 
and  spoke  about  Scofield;  said  he  was  a  weaver.  I'd 
heard  something  about  that  rich  brother  in  'Frisco  that 
hadn't  seen  the  rest  of  the  Scofields  for  years,  and  left 
'em  his  money  ;  so  I  saw  there  might  be  something 
wrong.  I  looked  it  up,  and  came  on  here." 

Jonah  took  his  hand. 

"  But  you  must  have  known  the  Scofields,  or  had 
some  interest  in  them,"  he  said,  after  a  moment. 

Simeon  Piper  looked  down  ;  then  he  looked  away  ; 
finally  he  twirled  his  thumbs. 

"  I  could  afford  the  time,"  he  said.     "  Got  money 


248  THREE    BRIDGES. 

enough.  "Well,  yes,  I  suppose  you  might  call  it  interest. 
Fact  is,  I  knew  Scofield's  wife's  sister  when  she  was 
young.  I — didn't  marry  her.  But,  then,  I  never  mar- 
ried any  one,  you  see." 

And  with  this  he  faced  his  questioner,  turning  upon 
him  a  pair  of  eyes  that  beamed  as  if  he  had  just  set  forth 
a  remarkably  cheerful  circumstance. 

On  further  inquiry  it  was  understood  how  Piper  had 
taken  the  wrong  train  for  Shagford,  and,  finding  that  it 
branched  off,  had  started  foolishly  to  walk  along  the 
track  when  overtaken  on  the  bridge.  He  was  now  con- 
vinced that  a  hat  was  not  a  good  place  in  which  to  de- 
posit important  documents. 

Finding  that  evidence  for  his  conviction  could  soon  be 
obtained,  in  addition  to  his  confession,  Hounsliell  ex- 
ecuted a  deed  of  the  mill  to  Scofield. 

"  And  what  do  you  propose  to  do  with  me  ?"  he 
asked.  "  Are  you  going  to  get  me  locked  up  ?' ' 

The  others  held  a  conference,  before  answering. 
Scofield  was  in  favor  of  letting  the  malefactor  go,  but 
the  decision  was  at  last  given  to  Piper,  who  said  : 

"I'm  sorry  for  you,  Hounshell.  It  would  have  been 
better  for  you  if  you  had  emigrated  some  time  ago.  But 
as  it  is,  I  guess  the  law'll  have  to  decide  where  you're  to 
locate." 

And,  subsequently,  it  did  so. 

"  Well,"  said  the  deposed  malefactor,  when  sentence 
had  been  passed,  "  I'm  almost  glad  of  it." 

A  soft  summer  rain  was  falling  as  they  led  him  out  of 
court  to  go  to  prison  ;  and,  strangely  enough,  he  had  not 
felt  so  happy  for  years.  Once  more  he  was  open  to  the 
charm  of  the  pattering  drops,  the  sweetness  of  refreshed 
flowers,  the  cool  air,  as  he  had  been  in  boyhood. 


THE   THIRD    BRIDGE.  249 

"It's  only  fair  to  YOU,"  Scofield  remarked,  forgiv- 
ingly, "  to  say  that  you  showed  conscience." 

"  Yes— if  I'd  only  followed  it,"  Hounshell  answered. 
"  A  man  ought  to  trust  his  conscience  instead  of  letting 
it  trust  him.  I  tell  'ee  it's  an  awful  sharp  creditor 
when  the  time  does  come  to  pay  up." 


IN  EACH  OTHER'S   SHOES. 


I. 


JOHN  CROMBIE  had  taken  a  room  at  the  new  apartment 
building,  The  Lome  ;  having  advanced  so  far  in  his  ex- 
perience of  New  York  as  to  be  aware  that  if  he  could 
once  establish  himself  in  a  house  associated  by  name  with 
foreign  places  and  titles  his  chance  of  securing  "  posi- 
tion" would  be  greatly  increased.  He  did  not,  however, 
take  his  meals  in  the  expensive  cafe  of  that  establish- 
ment, finding  it  more  economical  to  go  to  an  outlandish 
little  French  restaurant,  some  distance  away,  which  had 
been  nicknamed  among  those  of  his  acquaintance  who 
resorted  to  it,  "The  Fried  Cat."  This  designation, 
based  on  a  supposed  resemblance  to  the  name  of  the 
proprietor,  Fricat,  was  also  believed  to  have  value  as  a 
sarcasm. 

It  was  with  no  pleasant  sensations,  therefore,  that 
Orombie,  waking  on  a  gray  and  drizzling  morning  of 
November,  remembered  that  he  must  hie  him  to  the 
"  Fried  Oat"  for  an  early  breakfast.  He  was  in  a  hurry 
that  day  ;  he  had  a  great  deal  to  do.  His  room  was  very 
small  and  dark  ;  he  bounced  up  and  dressed  himself,  in 
an  obscure  sort  of  way,  surreptitiously  opening  the  door 
and  reaching  vaguely  for  his  shoes,  which  stood  just  out- 
side, ready  blacked.  Nor  did  it  add  to  his  comfort  to 


IN  EACH  OTHER'S  SHOES.  251 

know  that  the  shoes  were  very  defective  as  to  their  soles, 
and  would  admit  the  water  freely  from  the  accumulated 
puddles  of  the  sidewalks.  In  fact,  he  had  been  ashamed 
to  expose  their  bad  condition  to  the  porter  when  he  put 
them  out  every  night,  as  he  was  forced  to  do,  since  they 
were  his  only  pair.  Drawing  them  on  hastily,  in  order 
to  conceal  his  mortification  from  even  his  own  mind,  he 
sallied  forth  ;  and  though  at  the  moment  of  putting 
them  on  a  dim  sense  of  something  unfamiliar  crossed  his 
mind,  it  was  not  until  he  reached  "  The  Fried  Cat"  that 
he  became  fully  aware  that  he  had  carried  off  some  one 
else's  shoes.  He  turned  up  the  soles,  privately,  under- 
neath the  low-hanging  table-cloth,  and  by  a  brief  exam- 
ination convinced  himself  that  the  gaiters  did  not  belong 
to  him.  The  test  was  simple  :  his  feet  were  unaccount- 
ably dry,  and  there  were  none  of  those  breaks  in  the 
lower  surface  of  their  leather  covering  which  he  had  so 
often  been  obliged  to  contemplate. 

He  saw  at  once  that  the  porter  of  The  Lome  had 
made  a  mistake,  and  must  have  deposited  at  another 
apartment  his  own  very  insufficient  foot-gear  ;  but  there 
was  no  chance  now  to  remedy  the  confusion.  Crombie 
had  barely  time  to  reach  the  office  where  he  was  em- 
ployed. 

On  an  ordinary  occasion  he  would  perhaps  have  gone 
back  to  The  Lome  and  effected  an  honorable  exchange. 
This  particular  day,  however,  was  by  no  means  an  ordi- 
nary occasion.  Crombie  had  made  up  his  mind  to  take 
a  momentous  step  ;  and  it  was  therefore  essential  that  he 
should  appear  at  his  desk  exactly  on  time. 

He  was  a  clerk  in  an  important  engraving  company. 
For  several  years  he  had  occupied  that  post,  without  any 
opportunity  having  presented  itself  for  a  promotion.  At 
the  best,  even  should  he  rise,  what  could  he  expect  ? 


252  isr  EACH  OTHER'S  SHOES. 

To  be  cashier,  perhaps,  or  possibly,  under  exceptional 
circumstances,  a  confidential  private  secretary.  This 
prospect  did  not  satisfy  him  ;  he  was  determined  to 
strike  for  something  higher. 

It  will  naturally  be  inferred  that  he  was  ambitious.  I 
am  not  in  a  position  to  deny  this  ;  but  all  I  can  be  cer- 
tain of  is,  that  he  was  in  love — which  is  often  about  the 
same  thing. 

Several  times  at  The  Lome  he  had  met  in  the  hall- 
ways or  in  the  elevator  a  young  lady,  who  was  in  no 
small  degree  beautiful,  and  charmed  him  still  more  by 
her  general  presence,  which  conveyed  the  idea  of  a  har- 
monious and  lovely  character.  She  had  light  hair  and 
blue  eyes,  but  these  outward  attributes  were  joined  with 
a  serenity  and  poise  of  manner  that  indicated  greater 
stability  than  is  attributed,  as  a  rule,  to  individuals  of 
her  type. 

Once  he  happened  to  arrive  at  the  main  entrance 
just  as  this  vision  of  beauty  emerged  to  take  her  place  in 
a  coupe  which  was  waiting  by  the  curbstone.  She 
dropped  her  card- case  upon  the  sidewalk,  and  Crombie's 
heart  throbbed  with  delight  as  he  picked  it  up,  gave  it 
to  her,  and  received  her  smiling  thanks  for  his  little  ser- 
vice. Another  time,  as  he  was  descending  in  the  ele- 
vator, a  door  opposite  the  shaft,  on  the  second  floor, 
stood  open,  and  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  apartment  to 
which  it  gave  access.  The  room  was  finished  in  soft 
tints,  and  was  full  of  upholstery  and  hangings  that  lent 
it  a  dim  golden  atmosphere.  In  the  middle  of  it  stood 
the  young  girl,  clad  in  the  palest  blue,  above  which  her 
hair  shone  like  a  golden  cloud  on  some  dim  evening  sky. 

Slight  occurrences  of  this  sort  had  affected  him.  He 
learned  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  Littimer,  the  rich, 
widowed  banker  :  her  name  was  Blanche. 


EACH  OTHEK'S  SHOES.  253 


II. 

IN  these  new,  stout  shoes  that  did  not  belong  to  him 
Crombie  trod  with  a  buoyancy  and  assurance  strongly  in 
contrast  with  the  limp  and  half-hearted  pace  to  which  his 
old,  shabby  gaiters  had  formerly  inclined  him.  He  rat- 
tled down  the  stairs  of  the  elevated  station  with  an 
alacrity  almost  bumptious  ;  and  the  sharp,  confident  step 
that  announced  his  entrance  into  the  company's  office 
made  the  other  clerks  quite  ashamed  of  their  own  want 
of  spirit. 

He  worked  at  his  desk  until  noon  ;  but  when  the  bells 
of  Trinity  rang  twelve  in  solemn  music  over  the  busy 
streets,  he  dropped  his  pen,  walked  with  a  decisive  air 
the  length  of  the  room,  and,  opening  a  door  at  the  other 
end,  presented  himself  before  Mr.  Blatchford,  the  treas- 
urer, who  was  also  an  influential  director. 

"  Crombie,  eh  ?     Well,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  I  want  to  speak  with  you  a  moment,  sir." 

"  Anything  important  ?     I'm  busy." 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  quite  important — to  me.  Possibly  it  may 
be  to  you." 

"Fire  away,  then;  but  cut  it  short."  Mr.  Blatch- 
ford's  dense,  well-combed  gray  side- whiskers  were  direct- 
ed toward  the  young  man  in  an  aggressive  way,  as  if 
they  had  been  some  sort  of  weapon. 

Crombie  nonchalantly  settled  himself  in  a  chair,  at 
ease. 

"  I  am  tired  of  being  a  clerk,"  he  said.  "  I'm  going 
to  be  a  director  in  this  company." 

"  I  guess  you're  going  to  be  an  inmate  of  a  lunatic 
asylum,"  Mr.  Blatchford  remarked,  with  astonished 
cheerfulness. 


254  n*  EACH  OTHER'S  SHOES. 

"  That  seems  as  unlikely  to  me  as  the  other  thing 
does  to  you,"  said  Crombie. 

Hereupon  Mr.  Blatchford  became  sarcastically  defer- 
ential. "  And  just  about  when  do  you  propose  to  be- 
come a  director  ?"  he  asked. 

"  In  the  course  of  a  month.  The  election,  I  believe, 
takes  place  in  December." 

"Quite  right,"  said  his  senior,  whose  urbanity  was 
meant  to  be  crushing.  "  Meanwhile,  you  will  need  lei- 
sure to  attend  to  this  little  matter.  Suppose  I  oblige  you 
by  saying  that  the  company  has  no  further  need  of  your 
services  ?" 

"  Suppose  you  do.     What  then  ?" 

Mr.  Blatchford  gave  way  to  his  anger.  "  "What  then  ? 
Why,  then  you  would  have  to  go  ;  that's  all.  You 
would  be  thrown  out  of  employment.  You  would  have 
to  live  on  your  principal,  as  long  as  there  was  any  ;  and 
afterward  you  would  be  obh'ged  to  find  some  other  work, 
or  beg,  or  borrow,  or — " 

"  That's  enough,"  said  Crombie,  rising  with  dignity. 

"  No,  it  isn't,"  the  treasurer  declared,  "  for  you  don't 
seem  to  understand  even  now.  I  discharge  you,  Mr. 
Crombie,  on  the  company's  behalf,  and  you  may  leave 
this  office  at  once." 

Crombie  bowed  and  went  out.  "  I'm  going  to  be  a 
director,  all  the  same,"  he  told  Mr.  Blatchford  before  he 
closed  the  door.  Then  he  collected  the  few  articles  that 
belonged  to  him  from  his  desk,  and  departed,  a  free 
man.  He  had  his  future  to  himself  ;  or  else  he  had  no 
future  worth  speaking  of  ;  he  wasn't  sure  which. 
Nevertheless,  he  felt  quite  happy.  Such  a  result  as  this 
had  seemed  to  him,  in  the  prospect,  hardly  possible  ; 
but  now  that  it  had  arrived  he  was  not  discomfited. 
Unbounded  courage  seemed  to  rise  from  the  stout  soles 


IN  EACH  OTHER'S  SHOES.  255 

of  the  alien  boots,  percolating  through  his  whole  system. 
He  was  surprised  at  himself.  He  had  intended  to  use- 
more  diplomacy  with  Mr.  Blatchford,  and  it  was  no  joke 
to  him  to  lose  his  place.  But  instead  of  feeling  despond- 
ent, or  going  at  once  in  search  of  new  employment,  he 
cheerfully  went  about  making  calls  on  several  gentlemen 
who,  he  thought,  might  be  induced  to  aid  in  his  ambi- 
tious project.  His  manner  was  that  of  a  person  sure  of 
his  powers  and  enjoying  a  well-earned  leisure.  It  had 
its  effect.  Two  or  three  stockholders  of  the  company 
joined  in  agreeing  with  him  that  improved  methods- 
could  be  introduced  into  its  management,  and  that  it 
would  be  a  good  thing  to  have  in  the  board,  say,  two. 
young,  fresh,  active  men — of  whom  Crombie,  by  reason, 
of  his  experience  and  training,  should  be  one. 

"  I  own  a  little  stock,"  said  the  deposed  clerk,  who 
Lad  taken  the  precaution  to  obtain  a  couple  of  shares  by 
great  effort  in  saving.  "  Besides,  not  having  any  other 
engrossing  interests  at  present,  I  could  give  my  whole 
attention  to  the  company's  affairs." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  the  merchant  whom  he  was  address- 
ing, comfortably.  "  We  must  see  if  we  can  get  together- 
a  majority  ;  no  time  to  be  lost,  you  know." 

"  No,  sir.  I  shall  go  right  to  work  ;  and  perhaps  you. 
will  speak  to  some  of  your  friends,  and  give  me  some 
names." 

"  Certainly.     Come  in  again  pretty  soon  ;  will  you  ?" 

Crombie  saw  that  he  had  a  good  foundation  to  build 
upon  already.  Blatchford  was  not  popular,  even  among 
the  other  directors  ;  and  sundry  stockholders,  as  well  as 
people  having  business  with  the  company,  had  conceived 
a  strong  dislike  of  him  on  account  of  his  overbearing 
manners.  Therefore  it  would  not  be  hard  to  enlist  sym- 
pathy for  a  movement  obnoxious  to  him.  But  it  was 


256  IN"  EACH  OTHER'S  SHOES. 

imperative  that  the  self-nominated  candidate  should  ac- 
quire more  of  the  stock  ;  and  to  do  this  capital  must  be 
had.  Crombic  did  not  see  quite  how  it  was  to  be  got ; 
lie  had  no  sufficient  influence  with  the  bankers. 

The  afternoon  was  nearly  spent,  and  he  trudged  up- 
town, thinking  of  the  ways  and  means.  But  though  the 
problem  was  far  from  solved,  he  still  continued  in  a  state 
of  extraordinary  buoyancy.  Those  shoes,  those  shoes  ! 
He  was  so  much  impressed  by  their  comfort  and  the  ser- 
vice they  had  done  him  in  making  a  good  appearance 
that  he  resolved  to  get  a  new  pair  of  his  own.  He 
stopped  and  bought  them  ;  then  kept  on  toward  The 
Lome,  carrying  his  purchase  under  his  arm  without 
embarrassment.  The  cold  drizzle  had  ceased,  and  the 
sunset  came  out  clear  and  golden,  dipping  its  bright 
darts  into  the  shallow  pools  of  wet  on  the  pavement,  and 
somehow  mingling  with  his  financial  dreams  a  dream 
of  that  fair  hair  that  gave  a  glory  to  Miss  Blanche's 
face. 

On  regaining  his  modest  apartment  he  sent  for  the 
boot- boy,  and  inquired  the  whereabouts  of  his  missing 
shoes. 

"  Couldn't  tell  you,  sir,"  said  the  servant.  "  Pretty 
.near  all  the  men's  boots  in  the  house  has  gone  out,  you 
;see,  and  they'll  only  be  coming  back  just  about  now. 
I'll  look  out  for  'em,  sir,  and  nab  'em  as  soon  as  they 
show  up." 

"All  right.  Whose  are  these  that  I've  been  wear- 
ing ?" 

The  boy  took  them,  turned  them  over,  and  examined 
them  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur  in  every  part. 
"  Them  ?  I  should  say,  sir,  them  was  Mr.  Littimer's." 

Crombie  blushed  with  mortification.  Of  all  the  dwell- 
ers in  The  Lome,  this  was  the  very  one  with  whom  it 


IN  EACH  OTHER'S  SHOES.  257 

was  the  most  embarrassing  to  have  such  a  complication 
occur  ;  and  yet,  strange  inconsistency  !  he  had  been 
longing  for  any  accident,  no  matter  how  absurd  or  fan- 
tastic, that  could  bring  him  some  chance  of  an  acquaint- 
ance with  Blanche. 

"  Take  these  boots,  dry  them  right  away,  and  give 
'em  a  shine.  Then  carry  them  up  to  Mr.  Littimer's 
rooms."  He  gave  the  boy  a  quarter  :  he  was  becoming 
reckless. 

Now  that  he  had  embarked  upon  a  new  career,  he 
perceived  the  impropriety  of  a  future  director  in  the 
Engraving  Company  going  to  dine  at  the  "  Fried  Cat," 
and  so  resolved  to  take  his  dinner  in  the  gorgeous  cafe  of 
The  Lome.  While  he  was  waiting  for  the  proper  mo- 
ment to  descend  thither,  he  could  not  get  the  shoe  ques- 
tion out  of  his  mind.  Surely,  the  boot-boy  could  not 
have  been  so  idiotic  as  to  have  left  that  ancient,  broken- 
down  pair  at  Littimer's  threshold  !  And  yet  it  was  possi- 
ble. Crombie  felt  another  flush  of  humility  upon  his 
cheeks.  Then  he  wandered  off  into  revery  upon  the 
multifarious  errands  of  all  the  pairs  of  boots  and  shoes 
that  had  gone  forth  from  the  great  apartment-house  that 
day.  Patter,  patter,  patter  !  tramp,  tramp  ! — he  imag- 
ined he  heard  them  all  walking,  stamping,  shuffling 
along  toward  different  parts  of  the  city,  with  many 
different  objects,  and  sending  back  significant  echoes. 
Yfhither  had  his  own  ruinous  Congress  gaiters  gone  ? — 
to  what  destination  which  they  would  never  have  reached 
had  he  been  in  them  ?  Had  they  carried  their  tempo- 
rary possessor  into  any  such  worriment  and  trouble  as  he 
himself  had  often  travelled  through  on  their  worn  but 
faithful  soles  ? 

Breaking  off  from  these  idle  fancies  at  length,  he  went 
down  to  the  cafe  ;  and  there  he  had  the  pleasure  of  din- 


258  IN"  EACH  OTHER'S  SHOES. 

ing  at  a  table  not  far  from  Blanche  Littimer.  But,  to 
his  surprise,  she  was  alone.  Her  father  did  not  appear 
during  the  meal. 


III. 

THE  fact  was  that  the  awful  possibility,  mere  conject- 
ure of  which  had  frightened  Crombie,  had  occurred. 
Littimer  had  received  the  young  man's  shoes  in  place  of 
his  own. 

They  happened  to  fit  him  moderately  well  ;  so  that 
he,  likewise,  did  not  notice  the  exchange  until  he  had 
started  for  his  office.  He  believed  in  walking  the  entire 
distance,  no  matter  what  the  weather  ;  and  to  this  prac- 
tice he  made  rare  exceptions.  But  he  had  not  progressed 
very  far  before  he  became  annoyed  by  an  unaccustomed 
intrusion  of  dampness  that  threatened  him  with  a  cold. 
He  looked  down,  carefully  surveyed  the  artificial  casing 
of  his  extremities,  and  decided  to  hail  the  first  unoccu- 
pied coupe  he  should  meet.  It  was  some  time  before  he 
found  one  ;  and  when  finally  he  took  his  seat  in  the  lux- 
urious little  bank  parlor  at  Broad  Street,  his  feet  were 
quite  wet. 

His  surprise  at  this  occurrence  was  doubled  when,  on 
taking  off  the  shoes  and  scrutinizing  them  more  closely, 
he  ascertained  that  they  were  the  work  of  his  usual 
maker.  What  had  happened  to  him  ?  Was  he  dream- 
ing ?  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  gone  back  many 
years  ;  that  he  was  a  poor  young  man  again,  entering 
upon  his  first  struggle  for  a  foothold  in  the  crowded,  sel- 
fish, unhomelike  metropolis.  He  remembered  the  day 
when  he  had  worn  shoes  like  these. 


IK  EACH  OTHER'S  SHOES.  259 

He  sent  out  for  an  assortment  of  new  ones,  from 
which,  with  unnecessary  lavishness,  he  chose  and  kept 
three  or  four  pairs.  All  the  rest  of  the  day,  neverthe- 
less, those  sorry  Congress  boots  of  Crombie's,  which  he 
had  directed  his  office-boy  to  place  beside  the  soft-coal 
fire,  for  drying,  faced  him  with  a  sort  of  haunting  look. 
However  much  he  might  be  occupied  with  weightier 
matters,  he  could  not  keep  his  eyes  from  straying  in  that 
direction  ;  and  whenever  they  rested  on  that  battered 
"right"  and  that  way-worn  "left,"  turned  up  in  that 
mute,  appealing  repose  and  uselessness  at  the  fender,  his 
thoughts  recurred  to  his  early  years  of  trial  and  poverty. 
Ah  !  how  greatly  he  had  changed  since  then  !  On  some 
accounts  he  could  almost  wish  that  he  were  poor  again. 
But  when  he  remembered  Blanche,  he  was  glad,  for  her 
sake,  that  he  was  rich. 

But  if  for  her  sake,  why  not  for  others  ?  Perhaps  he 
had  been  rather  selfish,  not  only  about  Blanche,  but 
toward  her.  His  conscience  began  to  reproach  him. 
Had  he  made  for  her  a  large  life  ?  Since  her  mother's 
premature  death,  had  he  instilled  into  her  sympathies, 
tastes,  companionships  that  would  make  her  existence 
the  richer  ?  Had  he  not  kept  her  too  much  to  himself  ? 
On  the  other  hand,  he  had  gratified  all  her  material 
wants  ;  she  could  wear  what  she  pleased,  she  could  go 
where  she  chose,  she  had  acquaintances  of  a  sort  becom- 
ing to  the  daughter  of  a  wealthy  man.  Yet  there  was 
something  lacking.  What  did  she  know  about  old, 
used-up  boots  and  all  that  pertains  to  them  ?  "What  did 
she  know  about  indigence,  real  privation,  and  brave  en- 
durance, such  as  a  hundred  thousand  fellow-creatures  all 
around  her  were  undergoing  ? 

Somehow  it  dawned  upon  the  old  banker  that  if  she 
knew  about  all  these  things  and  had  some  share  in  them, 


260  itf  EACH  OTHER'S  SHOES. 

albeit  only  through  sympathy  and  helping,  she  might  be 
happier,  more  truly  a  woman,  than  she  was  now. 

As  he  sat  alone,  in  revery,  he  actually  heaved  a  deep 
sigh.  A  sigh  is  often  as  happy  a  deliverance  as  a  laugh, 
in  this  world  of  sorrows.  It  was  the  first  that  had 
escaped  Littimer  in  years.  Let  us  say  that  it  was  a 
breathing  space,  which  gave  him  time  for  reflection  ;  it 
marked  the  turning  of  a  leaf  ;  it  was  the  beginning  of  a 
new  chapter  in  his  life. 

Before  he  left  the  bank  he  locked  the  door  of  the  pri- 
vate parlor,  and  was  alone  for  two  or  three  minutes. 
The  office  boy  was  greatly  puzzled  the  next  morning, 
when  he  found  all  the  new  pairs  of  shoes  ranged  intact 
in  the  adjoining  cupboard.  The  old  ones  were  missing. 

Littimer  had  gone  away  in  them,  furtively.  He  was 
ashamed  of  his  own  impulse. 

This  time  he  resolutely  remained  afoot  instead  of  hir- 
ing a  carriage.  He  despatched  a  messenger  to  Blanche, 
saying  that  sudden  business  would  prevent  his  returning 
to  dinner,  and  continued  indefinitely  on  his  way — 
whither  ?  As  to  that  he  was  by  no  means  certain  ;  he 
knew  only  that  he  must  get  out  of  the  beaten  track,  out 
of  the  ruts.  For  an  hour  or  two  he  must  cease  to  be 
Littimer,  the  prosperous  moneyed  man,  and  must  tread 
once  more  the  obscure  paths  through  which  he  had  made 
his  way  to  fortune.  He  could  hardly  have  explained 
the  prompting  which  he  obeyed.  Could  it  have  had 
anything  to  do  with  the  treacherous  holes  in  the  bottoms 
of  those  old  shoes  ? 

As  it  chanced,  he  passed  by  the  "  Fried  Cat ;"  and, 
dingy  though  the  place  was,  he  felt  an  irresistible  desire 
to  enter  it.  Seating  himself,  he  ordered  the  regular  din- 
ner of  the  day.  The  light  was  dim  ;  the  tablecloth  was 
dirty  ;  the  attendance  was  irregular  and  distracted.  Lit- 


isr  EACH  OTHER'S  SHOES.  26L 

timer  took  one  sip  of  the  sour  wine — which  had  a  flavor 
resembling  vinegar  and  carmine  ink  in  equal  parts — and 
left  the  further  contents  of  his  bottle  untasted.  The 
soup,  the  stew,  and  the  faded  roast  that  were  set  before 
him,  he  could  scarcely  swallow  ;  but  a  small  cup  of  coffee 
at  the  end  of  the  well-nigh  Barmecide  repast  came  in 
very  palatably. 

In  default  of  prandial  attractions,  Littimer  tried  to  oc- 
cupy himself  by  locking  at  the  people  around  him.  The 
omnifarious  assembly  included  pale,  prim-whiskered 
young  clerks  ;  shabby,  lonely,  sallow  young  women, 
whose  sallowness  and  shabbiness  stamped  them  with  the 
mark  of  integrity  ;  other  females  whose  specious  splen- 
dor was  not  nearly  so  reassuring  ;  old  men,  broken-down 
men,  middle-aged  men  of  every  description,  except  the 
well-to-do. 

"Some  of  them,"  Littimer  reflected,  aare  no  worse 
than  I  am.  But  are  any  of  them  really  any  better  ?" 

He  could  not  convince  himself  that  they  were  ;  yet  his 
sympathies,  somehow,  went  out  toward  this  motley 
crowd.  It  appeared  to  him  very  foolish  that  he  should 
sympathize,  but  he  could  not  help  it.  "And,  after  all," 
was  the  next  thought  that  came  to  him,  "  are  we  to  give 
pity  to  people,  or  withhold  it,  simply  because  they  are 
better  or  worse  than  ourselves  ?  No  ;  there  is  something 
more  in  it  than  that." 

Leaving  the  ' '  Fried  Cat ' '  abruptly,  he  betook  him- 
self to  an  acquaintance  who,  he  knew,  was  very  active  in 
charities — a  man  who  worked  practically,  and  gave  time 
to  the  work. 

"  Do  you  visit  any  of  your  distress  cases  to-night?" 
he  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  shall  make  a  few  calls,"  answered  the  man 
of  charity.  "Would  you  like  to  go  along  ?'' 


262  IN  EACH  OTHER'S  SHOES. 

"  Very  much." 

So  the  two  started  out  together.  The  places  they 
went  to  were  of  various  kinds,  and  revealed  a  consider- 
able diversity  of  misfortune.  Sometimes  they  entered 
tenement-houses  of  the  most  wretched  character  ;  but  in 
other  instances  they  went  to  small  and  cheap  but  decent 
lodgings  over  the  shops  on  West  Side  avenues,  or  even 
penetrated  into  boarding-houses  of  such  good  appear- 
ance that  the  banker  was  surprised  to  find  his  friend's 
mission  carrying  him  thither.  All  the  cases,  however, 
had  been  studied,  and  were  vouched  for ;  and  several 
were  those  of  young  men  and  women  having  employ- 
ment, but  temporarily  disabled,  and  without  friends  who 
could  help  them. 

"  You  do  well  to  help  these  beginners,  at  critical 
times,"  said  the  banker,  with  satisfaction.  "I  take  a 
special  interest  in  them." 

It  was  almost  the  same  as  if  he  were  receiving  relief 
himself.  Who  knows  ?  Perhaps  he  was  ;  but  to  the 
outward  eye  it  appeared  merely  that,  with  his  friend's 
sanction,  he  was  dispensing  money  and  offers  of  good 
will  to  the  needy.  What  a  strange  freak  it  was,  though, 
in  Littimer  !  He  kept  on  with  the  work  until  quite  late 
in  the  evening,  regardless  of  the  risk  he  ran  by  continu- 
ing out-of-doors  when  so  ill  shod. 

I  think  he  had  some  idea  in  his  mind  that  he  was  per- 
forming an  act  of  penance. 


IN  EACH  OTHER'S  SHOES.  263 


IV. 


HAVING  waited  a  reasonable  length  of  time  after  din- 
ner, Crombie  again  left  his  room,  resolved  to  make  a  call 
upon  Mr.  Littimer,  on  the  plea  of  apologizing  for  having 
marched  away  with  his  shoes. 

He  would  not  run  the  risk,  by  sending  his  card,  of 
being  denied  as  a  stranger  ;  so,  notwithstanding  much 
hesitation  and  tremor,  he  approached  the  door  which  he 
had  once  seen  standing  open,  and  knocked.  A  voice 
which  he  now  heard  for  the  second  time  in  his  life,  but 
which  was  so  sweet  and  crept  so  naturally  into  the  centre 
of  his  heart  that  the  thought  of  it  seemed  always  to  have 
been  there,  answered  :  "  Come  in."  And  he  did  come 
in. 

"  Is  Mr.  Lit — is  your  father  at  home  ?"  It  seemed 
to  bring  him  a  little  nearer  to  her  to  say  "  your  father." 

Blanche  had  risen  from  the  chair  where  she  was  read- 
ing, and  looked  very  much  surprised.  "  Oh,"  she  ex- 
claimed, with  girlish  simplicity,  "  I  thought  it  was  the 
waiter  !  N-no  ;  he  hasn't  come  home  yet." 

"  I  beg  pardon.  Then  perhaps  I'd  better  call  later." 
Crombie  made  a  feeble  movement  toward  withdrawal. 

"  Did  you  want  to  see  him  on  business  ?  Who  shall  I 
tell  him  ?" 

"  Mr.  Crombie,  please.     It's  nothing  very  important." 

"  Oh,"  said  Blanche,  with  a  little  blush  at  her  own 
deception,  "haven't  I  seen  you  in  the  house  before? 
Are  you  staying  here  ?" 

She  remembered  distinctly  the  incident  of  the  card- 
case,  and  how  very  nice  she  had  thought  him,  both  on 
that  occasion  and  every  time  she  had  seen  him.  But  as 


264  IN  EACH  OTHER'S  SHOES. 

for  him,  his  heart  sank  at  the  vague  impersonality  with 
which  she  seemed  to  regard  him. 

"  Yes,  I'm  here,  and  can  easily  come  in  again." 

"  I  expect  my  father  almost  any  moment,"  she  said. 
"  Would  you  like  to  wait  ?" 

What  an  absurd  question,  to  one  in  his  frame  of 
mind  !  "  Well,  really,  it  is  such  a  very  small  matter," 
he  began,  examining  his  hat  attentively.  Then  he 
glanced  up  at  her  again,  and  smiled  :  "  I  only  wanted  to 
— to  make  an  apology." 

"  An  apology  !"  echoed  Blanche,  becoming  rather 
more  distant.  "  Oh,  dear  !  I'm  very  sorry,  I'm  sure. 
I  didn't  know  there'd  been  any  trouble."  She  began  to 
look  anxious,  and  turned  her  eyes  upon  the  smouldering 
fire  in  the  grate.  So  this  was  to  be  the  end  of  her  pleas- 
ant, cheerful  reveries  about  this  nice  young  man.  And 
the  reveries  had  been  more  frequent  than  she  had  been 
aware  of  until  now. 

"  There  has  been  no  trouble,"  he  assured  her,  eagerly. 
"  Just  a  little  mistake  that  occurred  ;  and,  in  fact,  I  was 
hardly  responsible  for  it." 

Blanche's  eyes  began  to  twinkle  with  a  new  and  amus- 
ing interpretation.  "  Ah  !"  she  cried,  "  are  you  the 
gentleman  who — '  Then  she  stopped  short. 

Crombie  was  placed  in  an  unexpected  embarrassment. 
How  could  he  possibly  drag  into  his  conversation  with 
this  lovely  young  creature  so  commonplace  and  vulgar 
a  subject  as  shoe-leather  !  Ignoring  her  unfinished  ques- 
tion, he  asked  :  "  Do  you  know,  Miss  Littimer,  whether 
the — a — one  of  the  servants  here  has  brought  up  any- 
thing for  your  father — that  is,  a  parcel,  a — ' 

"  A  pair  of  shoes  ?''  Blanche  broke  in,  her  eyes  danc- 
ing, while  her  lips  parted  in  a  smile. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  that's  what  I  meant." 


IK  EACH  OTHER'S  SHOES.  265 

"  They  came  up  just  after  dinner,"  Blanche  returned. 
11  Then  you  are  the  gentleman." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  am,"  Crombie  owned,  and  they  both 
laughed. 

Blanche  quietly,  and  with  no  apparent  intention,  re- 
sumed her  chair  ;  and  this  time  Crombie  took  a  seat 
without  waiting  to  be  invited  again.  Thus  they  fell  to 
talking  in  the  friendliest  way. 

"  I  can't  imagine  what  has  become  of  papa,"  said 
Blanche.  "  He  sent  word,  in  the  most  mysterious  man- 
ner, that  he  had  an  engagement  ;  and  it  is  so  unusual  ! 
Perhaps  it's  something  about  the  new  house  he's  build- 
ing— up -town,  you  know.  Dear  me  !  it  does  make  so 
much  trouble,  and  I  don't  believe  I  shall  like  it  half  as 
well  as  these  little,  cosey  rooms." 

The  little,  cosey  rooms  were  as  the  abode  of  giants 
compared  with  Crombie's  contracted  quarters  ;  but  he 
drew  comfort  from  what  she  said,  thinking  how  such 
sentiments  might  make  it  possible  to  win  even  so  un- 
attainable an  heiress  into  some  modest  home  of  his 
own. 

"  You  don't  know  till  you  try  it,"  he  replied.  "  Just 
think  of  having  a  place  all  to  yourself,  belonging  to 
you." 

Blanche  lifted  her  eyebrows,  and  a  little  sigh  escaped 
her.  She  was  reflecting,  perhaps,  that  a  place  all  to 
herself  would  be  rather  lonely. 

"  You  have  never  met  my  father  ?"  she  asked. 

"No.     I  have  seen  him. " 

"  Well,  I  think  you  will  like  him  when  you  know 
him." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it  !"  Crombie  exclaimed  with  fervor, 
worshipping  the  very  furniture  that  surrounded  Blanche. 
"  I  hope  we  may  become  better  acquainted." 


266  IN    EACH    OTHER  S    SHOES. 

"  Only  I  think,  Mr.  Crombie,  lie  will  owe  you  an 
apology  now." 

"Why?" 

"  For  keeping  your  shoes  out  so  late." 

11  My  shoes  !"  said  the  young  man,  in  vehement  sur- 
prise. 

"  Why,  yes.  Didn't  you  know  they  came  to  him  ? 
The  porter  said  so." 

Crombie  grew  red  with  the  sense  of  his  disgrace  in 
having  his  poverty-stricken  boots  come  to  the  knowledge 
of  the  banker.  Really,  his  mortification  was  so  great 
that  the  accident  seemed  to  him  to  put  an  end  to  all  his 
hopes  of  further  relations  with  Blanche  and  her  father. 

"  Oh,  I  assure  you,"  he  said,  rising,  "  that  makes  no 
difference  at  all  !  I'm  sorry  I  mentioned  the  matter. 
Pray  tell  Mr.  Littimer  not  to  think  of  it.  I  —I  believe 
I'd  better  go  now,  Miss  Littimer." 

Blanche  rose  too,  and  Crombie  was  on  the  point  of 
bowing  a  good-night,  when  the  door  opened,  and  a 
weary- figure  presented  itself  on  the  threshold  ;  the  figure 
of  a  short  man  with  a  spare  face,  and  whiskers  in  which 
gray  mingled  with  the  sandy  tint.  He  had  a  pinched, 
half-growling  expression,  was  draped  in  a  light,  drag- 
gled overcoat,  and  carried  an  umbrella,  the  ribs  of  which 
hung  loose  around  the  stick. 

"  There's  papa  this  moment  !"  cried  Blanche. 

Crombie  perceived  that  escape  was  impossible,  and,  in 
a  few  words,  the  reason  of  his  presence  there  was  made 
known  to  the  old  gentleman. 

Littimer  examined  the  visitor  swiftly,  from  head  to 
foot— especially  the  foot.  He  advanced  to  the  fire, 
toasted  first  one  and  then  the  other  of  the  damp  gaiters 
he  had  on,  and  at  length  broke  out,  in  a  tone  bordering 
on  reproach  :  "  So  you  are  the  owner,  are  you  ?  Then 


IN"  EACH  OTHER'S  SHOES.  267 

my  sympathy  has  all  been  wasted  !  Why,  I  supposed, 
from  the  condition  of  these  machines  that  I've  been  lug- 
ging around  with  me  half  the  day,  that  you  must  be  in 
the  greatest  distress.  And,  lo  and  behold  !  I  find  you  a 
young  fellow  in  prime  health,  spruce  and  trim,  doing 
well,  I  should  say,  and  perfectly  happy." 

"I  can't  help  that,  sir,"  retorted  Crombie,  nettled, 
but  speaking  with  respect.  "  I  confess  1  was  very 
happy  until  a  moment  or  two  ago." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  the  other  demanded, 
with  half-yielding  pugnacity.  "  Till  I  came  in — is  that 
the  idea  ?" 

"  Oh,  papa  !"  said  Blanche,  softly. 

"Well,  honey-bee,  what's  the  matter?"  her  father 
asked,  trying  to  be  gruff.  "  Can't  I  say  what  I  like, 
here  ?"  But  he  surrendered  at  once  by  adding  :  "  You 
may  be  sure  1  don't  want  to  offend  any  one.  Sit  down, 
Mr.  Crombie,  and  wait  just  a  few  moments  while  I  go 
into  the  other  room  and  rejuvenate  my  hoofs,  so  to 
speak — for  I  fear  I've  made  a  donkey  of  myself." 

lie  disappeared  into  an  adjoining  room  with  Blanche, 
who  there  informed  him  artlessly  of  Crombie's  consid- 
eration and  attentiveness  in  restoring  the  errant  shoes. 
When  they  came  back  Littimer  insisted  upon  having  the 
young  man  remain  a  little  longer  and  drink  a  glass  of 
port  with  him.  Before  taking  his  departure,  however, 
Crombie,  who  felt  free  to  speak  since  Blanche  had 
retired,  made  a  brief  statement  in  satisfaction  of  con- 
science. 

"  You  hinted,"  he  said,  "  that  you  judged  me  to  be 
doing  well.  I  don't  want  to  leave  you  with  a  false  im- 
pression. The  truth  is,  I  am  not  doing  well.  I  have 
no  money  to  speak  of,  and  to-day  I  lost  the  position  on 
which  I  depended." 


268  itf  EACH  OTHER'S  SHOES. 

"  You  don't  tell  me  !"  Littimer's  newly  roused  char- 
itable impulses  came  to  the  fore.  "  Why,  now  you 
begin  to  be  really  interesting,  Mr.  Crombie." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Crombie  ;  "I'm  not  ambitious  to 
interest  people  in  that  way.  I  told  you  only  because  I 
thought  it  fair." 

"Don't  be  touchy,  my  dear  sir,"  answered  the 
banker.  "I  meant  what  I  said.  Come,  let's  see  what 
can  be  done.  Have  you  any  scheme  in  view  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  said  Crombie,  with  decision. 

Littimer  gave  a  grunt.  He  was  afraid  of  people  with 
schemes,  and  was  disappointed  with  the  young  man's 
want  of  helplessness.  Dependence  would  have  been  an 
easier  thing  to  deal  with. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "we  must  talk  it  over.  Come 
and  see  me  at  the  bank  to-morrow.  You  know  the  ad- 
dress ?" 


Y. 


THE  next  day  Crombie  called  at  the  bank  ;  but  Litti- 
mer was  not  there.  He  was  not  very  well,  it  was  said  ; 
had  not  come  down-town.  Crombie  did  what  he  could 
toward  organizing  his  fight  for  a  directorship,  and  then 
returned  to  The  Lome,  where  he  punctually  inquired 
after  Mr.  Littimer's  health,  and  learned  that  the  banker's 
ardor  in  making  the  rounds  among  distressed  people  the 
night  before  had  been  followed  by  reaction  into  a  bad 
cold,  with  some  threat  of  pneumonia.  Blanche  was 
plainly  anxious.  The  attack  lasted  three  or  four  days, 
and  Crombie,  though  the  affair  of  the  directorship  was 


IK  EACH  OTHER'S  SHOES.  269 

pressing  for  attention,  could  not  forbear  to  remain  as 
near  as  possible  to  Blanche,  offering  every  aid  within  his 
power,  so  far  as  he  might  without  overstepping  the  lines 
of  his  very  recent  acquaintance.  But  the  Lit  timers  did 
not,  according  to  his  observation,  number  any  very  inti- 
mate companions  in  their  circle,  or  at  least  had  not  many 
friends  who  would  be  assiduous  in  such  an  emergency. 
Perhaps  their  friends  were  too  busy  with  social  engage- 
ments. Consequently,  he  saw  a  good  deal  of  Blanche, 
and  became  to  her  an  object  of  reliance. 

Well,  it  was  simply  one  of  those  things  that  happen 
only  in  fairy-tales  or  in  romances — or  in  real  life.  Litti- 
mer  recovered  without  any  serious  illness,  and,  after  a 
brief  conference  with  Crombie,  entered  heartily  into  the 
young  man's  campaign.  Crombie  showed  him  just  what 
combinations  could  be  formed,  how  success  could  be 
achieved,  and  what  lucrative  results  might  be  made  to 
ensue.  He  conquered  by  figures  and  by  lucid  common- 
sense.  Littimer  agreed  to  buy  a  number  of  shares  in  the 
Engraving  Company,  which  he  happened  to  know  could 
be  purchased,  and  to  advance  Crombie  a  good  sum  with 
which  to  procure  a  portion  of  the  same  lot.  But  before 
this  agreement  could  be  consummated,  Crombie,  with 
his  usual  frankness,  said  to  the  banker  : 

"  I  will  conceal  nothing  from  you,  Mr.  Littimer.  I 
fell  in  love  with  Blanche  before  I  knew  her,  and  if  this 
venture  of  mine  succeeds,  I  shall  ask  her  to  become  my 
wife." 

"  Let  us  attend  to  business,"  said  Littimer,  severely. 
"  Sentiment  can  take  care  of  itself." 

Their  manoeuvre  went  on  so  vigorously  that  Blatchford 
became  alarmed,  and  sent  an  ambassador  to  arrange  a 
compromise  ;  but  by  this  time  Crombie  had  determined 
to  oust  Blatchford  himself  and  elect  an  entirely  new  set 


270  IN  EACH  OTHER'S  SHOES. 

of  men,  to  compose  more  than  half  the  Board,  and  so 
control  everything. 

He  succeeded. 

But  Littimer  did  not  forget  the  charitable  enthusiasm 
which  had  been  awakened  by  a  circumstance  on  the  sur- 
face so  trivial  as  the  mistake  of  a  boot-boy.  He  did  not 
desist  from  his  interest  in  aiding  disabled  or  unfortunate 
people  who  could  really  be  aided.  Some  time  after 
Crombie  had  achieved  his  triumph  in  the  Engraving 
Company,  and  had  repaid  Littimer's  loan,  he  was  admit- 
ted to  a  share  in  the  banking  business  ;  and  eventually 
the  head  of  the  house  was  able  to  give  a  great  deal  of 
attention  to  perfecting  his  benevolent  plans. 

When  the  details  of  their  wedding  were  under  discus- 
sion, Crombie  said  to  Blanche  :  "  Oughtn't  we  to  have 
an  old  shoe  thrown  after  the  carriage  as  we  drive  away  ?" 

She  smiled  ;  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes  with  a  pecul- 
iar tenderness  in  which  there  was  a  bright,  delicious 
sparkle  of  humor.  "  No  ;  old  shoes  are  much  too  use- 
ful to  be  wasted  that  way." 

Somehow  she  had  possessed  herself  of  that  particular, 
providential  pair  ;  and,  though  I  don't  want  anybody  to 
laugh  at  my  two  friends,  I  must  risk  saying  that  I  sus- 
pect Mrs.  Crombie  of  preserving  it  somewhere,  to  this 
day,  in  the  big  new  house  up-town. 


THE    END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


REC'O 


30m-7,'70(N8475s8) — C-120 


3  1158009397471 


